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BEAUTY AHD THE BEAST 


AND 


TALES OF HOME. 
































/ 


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t 3 7 V U <✓ 

BEAUTY AND THE BEAST 


AND 


TALES OF HOME. 


BY 

BAYARD TAYLOR. 

t( 



NEW YORK: 

G. P. PUTNAM & SONS, 

FOURTH AVENUE AND TWENTY-THIRD STREET. 

1872. 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, by 
GEO. P. PUTNAM & SONS, 

in the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. 



Wm. McCrea & Co., Stereotypers, Newburgh, N. Y. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE. 

Beauty and the Beast 7 

The Strange Friend 75 

Jacob Flint’s Journey 107 

Can a Life Hide Itself? 139 

Twin-Love 169 

The Experiences of the A. C. ... 193 

Friend Eli’s Daughter 241 

Miss Bartram’s Trouble 283 

Mrs. Strongitharm’s Report . . . 307 









































BEAUTY AND THE BEAST 


A STORY OF OLD RUSSIA. 

I. 

E are about to relate a story 
of mingled fact and fancy. The 
facts are borrowed from the 
Russian author, Petjerski ; the 
fancy is our own. Our task 
will chiefly be to soften the out- 
lines of incidents almost too sharp and rugged for literary 
use, to supply them with the necessary coloring and 
sentiment, and to give a coherent and proportioned 
shape to the irregular fragments of an old chron- 
icle. We know something, from other sources, of the 
customs described, something of the character of the 
people from personal observation, and may therefore the 
more freely take such liberties as we choose with the rude, 
vigorous sketches of the Russian original. One who hap- 
pens to have read the work of Villebois can easily com- 
prehend the existence of a state of society, on the banks 



8 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 

of the Volga, a hundred years ago, which is now impos- 
sible, and will soon become incredible. What is strangest 
in our narrative has been declared to be true. 


II. 

We are in Kinesma, a small town on the Volga, be- 
tween Kostroma and Nijni-Novgorod. The time is about 
the middle of the last century, and the month October. 

There was trouble one day, in the palace of Prince 
Alexis, of Kinesma. This edifice, with its massive white 
walls, and its pyramidal roofs of green copper, stood 
upon a gentle mound to the eastward of the town, over- 
looking it, a broad stretch of the Volga, and the opposite 
shore. On a similar hill, to the westward, stood the 
church, glittering with its dozen bulging, golden domes. 
These two establishments divided the sovereignty of 
Kinesma between them. Prince Alexis owned the bodies 
of the inhabitants, (with the exception of a few merchants 
and tradesmen,) and the Archimandrite Sergius owned 
their souls. But the shadow of the former stretched also 
over other villages, far beyond the ring of the wooded hor- 
izon. The number of his serfs was ten thousand, and his 
rule over them was even less disputed than theirs over 
their domestic animals. 

The inhabitants of the place had noticed with dismay 
that the slumber-flag had not been hoisted on the castle, 
although it was half an hour after the usual time. So 
rare a circumstance betokened sudden wrath or disaster, 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


9 


on the part of Prince Alexis. Long experience had pre- 
pared the people for anything that might happen, and 
they were consequently not astonished at the singular 
event which presently transpired. 

The fact is, that in the first place, the dinner had been 
prolonged full ten minutes beyond its accustomed limit, 
owing to a discussion between the Prince, his wife, the 
Princess Martha, and their son Prince Boris. The last 
was to leave for St. Petersburg in a fortnight, and wished 
to have his departure preceded by a festival at the castle. 
The Princess Martha was always ready to second the de- 
sires of her only child. Between the two they had 
pressed some twenty or thirty thousand rubles out of the 
old Prince, for the winter diversions of the young one. 
The festival, to be sure, would have been a slight expend- 
iture for a noble of such immense wealth as Prince Alex- 
is ; but he never liked his wife, and he took a stubborn 
pleasure in thwarting her wishes. It was no satisfaction 
that Boris resembled her in character. That weak suc- 
cessor to the sovereignty of Kinesma preferred a game 
of cards to a bear hunt, and could never drink more than 
a quart of vodki without becoming dizzy and sick. 

“ Ugh ! ” Prince Alexis would cry, with a shudder of 
disgust, “ the whelp barks after the dam ! ” 

A state dinner he might give ; but a festival, with 
dances, dramatic representations, burning tar-barrels, and 
cannon, — no ! He knitted his heavy brows and drank 
deeply, and his fiery gray eyes shot such incessant glances 
from side to side that Boris and the Princess Martha 


IO 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


could not exchange a single wink of silent advice. The 
pet bear, Mishka, plied with strong wines, which Prince 
Alexis poured out for him into a golden basin, became at 
last comically drunk, and in endeavoring to execute a 
dance, lost his balance, and fell at full length on his back. 

The Prince burst into a yelling, shrieking fit of laugh- 
ter. Instantly the yellow-haired serfs in waiting, the Cal- 
mucks at the hall-door, and the half-witted dwarf who 
crawled around the table in his tow shirt, began laughing 
in chorus, as violently as they could. The Princess Mar- 
tha and Prince Boris laughed also; and while the old 
man’s eyes were dimmed with streaming tears of mirth, 
quickly exchanged nods. The sound extended all over 
the castle, and was heard outside of the walls. 

“ Father ! ” said Boris, “ let us have the festival, and 
Mishka shall perform again. Prince Paul of Kostroma 
would strangle, if he could see him.” 

“ Good, by St. Vladimir ! ” exclaimed Prince Alexis. 
“ Thou shalt have it, my Borka ! * Where’s Simon Pe- 
trovitch ? May the Devil scorch that vagabond, if he 
doesn’t do better than the last time ! Sasha ! ” 

A broad-shouldered serf stepped forward and stood 
with bowed head. 

“ Lock up Simon Petrovitch in the southwestern 
tower. Send the tailor and the girls to him, to learn 
their parts. Search every one of them before they go in, 
and if any one dares to carry vodki to the beast, twenty- 
five lashes on the back ! ” 


* Little Boris. 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. II 

Sasha bowed again and departed. Simon Petrovitch 
was the court-poet of Kinesma. He had a mechanical 
knack of preparing allegorical diversions which suited 
the conventional taste of society at that time ; but he had 
also a failing, — he was rarely sober enough to write. 
Prince Alexis, therefore, was in the habit of locking him 
up and placing a guard over him, until the inspiration 
had done its work. The most comely young serfs of both 
sexes were selected to perform the parts, and the court- 
tailor arranged for them the appropriate dresses. It de- 
pended very much upon accident — that is to say, the mood 
of Prince Alexis — whether Simon Petrovitch was reward- 
ed with stripes or rubles. 

The matter thus settled, the Prince rose from the 
table and walked out upon an overhanging balcony, 
where an immense reclining arm-chair of stuffed leather 
was ready for his siesta. He preferred this indulgence in 
the open air ; and although the weather was rapidly grow- 
ing cold, a pelisse of sables enabled him to slumber 
sweetly in the face of the north wind. An attendant 
stood with the pelisse outspread ; another held the hal- 
yards to which was attached the great red slumber-flag, 
ready to run it up and announce to all Kinesma that the 
noises of the town must cease ; a few seconds more, and 
all things would have been fixed in their regular daily 
courses. The Prince, in fact, was just straightening his 
shoulders to receive the sables; his eyelids were drop- 
ping, and his eyes, sinking mechanically with them, fell 
upon the river-road, at the foot of the hill. Along this 


12 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


road walked a man, wearing the long cloth caftan of a 
merchant. 

Prince Alexis started, and all slumber vanished out 
of his eyes. He leaned forward for a moment, with a 
quick, eager expression ; then a loud roar, like that of 
an enraged wild beast, burst from his mouth. He gave a 
stamp that shook the balcony. 

“ Dog ! ” he cried to the trembling attendent, “ my 
cap ! my whip ! ” 

The sables fell upon the floor, the cap and whip ap- 
peared in a twinkling, and the red slumber-flag was folded 
up again for the first time in several years, as the Prince 
stormed out of the castle. The traveller below had heard 
the cry, — for it might have been heard half a mile. He 
seemed to have a presentiment of evil, for he had already 
set off towards the town at full speed. 

To explain the occurence, we must mention one of 
the Prince’s many peculiar habits. This was, to invite 
strangers or merchants of the neighborhood to dine with 
him, and, after regaling them bountifully, to take his pay 
in subjecting them to all sorts of outrageous tricks, with 
the help of his band of willing domestics. Now this par- 
ticular merchant had been invited, and had attended ; 
but, being a very wide-awake, shrewd person, he saw 
what was coming, and dexterously slipped away from the 
banquet without being perceived. The Prince vowed 
vengeance, on discovering the escape, and he was not a 
man to forget his word. 

Impelled by such opposite passions, both parties ran 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


13 


with astonishing speed. The merchant was the taller, 
but his long caftan, hastily ungirdled, swung behind him 
and dragged in the air. The short, booted legs of the 
Prince beat quicker time, and he grasped his short, 
heavy, leathern whip more tightly as he saw the space 
diminishing. They dashed into the town of Kinesma a 
hundred yards apart. The merchant entered the main 
street, or bazaar, looking rapidly to right and left, as he 
ran, in the hope of espying some place of refuge. The 
terrible voice behind him cried, — 

“ Stop, scoundrel ! I have a crow to pick with you ! ” 
And the tradesmen in their shops looked on and 
laughed, as well they might, being unconcerned specta- 
tors of the fun. The fugitive, therefore, kept straight on, 
notwithstanding a pond of water glittered across the 
farther end of the street. 

Although Prince Alexis had gained considerably in 
the race, such violent exercise, after a heavy dinner, de- 
prived him of breath. He again cried, — 

“ Stop ! ” 

* But the merchant answered, — 

“ No, Highness ! You may come to me, but I will 
not go to you.” 

“ Oh, the villian ! ” growled the Prince, in a hoarse 
whisper, for he had no more voice. 

The pond cut of all further pursuit. Hastily kicking 
off his loose boots, the merchant plunged into the water, 
rather than encounter the princely whip, which already 
began to crack and snap in fierce anticipation. Prince 


H 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


Alexis kicked off his boots and followed ; the pond grad- 
ually deepened, and in a minute the tall merchant stood 
up to his chin in the icy water, and his short pursuer like- 
wise but out of striking distance. The latter coaxed and 
entreated, but the victim kept his ground. 

“ You lie, Highness ! ” he said, boldly. “ If you want 
me, come to me.” 

“ Ah-h-h ! ” roared the Prince, with chattering teeth, 
“what a stubborn rascal you are ! Come here, and I 
give you my word that I will not hurt you. Nay,”— see- 
ing that the man did not move, — “you shall dine with 
me as often as you please. You shall be my friend ; by 
St. Vladimir, I like you !” 

“ Make the sign of the cross, and swear it by all the 
Saints,” said the merchant, composedly. 

With a grim smile on his face, the Prince stepped 
back and shiveringly obeyed. Both then waded out, sat 
down upon the ground and pulled on their boots ; and 
presently the people of Kinesma beheld the dripping pair 
walking side by side up the street, conversing in the most 
cordial manner. The merchant dried his clothes from 
within , at the castle table ; a fresh keg of old Cognac was 
opened ; and although the slumber-flag was not unfurled 
that afternoon, it flew from the staff and hushed the town 
nearly all the next day. 


III. 

The festival granted on behalf of Prince Boris was 
one of the grandest ever given at the castle. In charac 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


15 


ter it was a singular cross between the old Muscovite 
revel and the French entertainments which were then in- 
troduced by the Empress Elizabeth. All the nobility, for 
fifty versts around, including Prince Paul and the chief 
families of Kostroma, were invited. Simon Petrovitch 
had been so carefully guarded that his work was actually 
completed and the parts distributed ; his superintendence 
of the performance, however, was still a matter of doubt, 
as it was necessary to release him from the tower, and 
after several days of forced abstinence he always mani- 
fested a raging appetite. Prince Alexis, in spite of this 
doubt, had been assured by Boris that the dramatic part 
of the entertainment would not be a failure. When he 
questioned Sasha, the poet’s strong-shouldered guard, the 
latter winked familiarly and answered with a proverb, — 

“ I sit on the shore and wait for the wind,” — which 
was as much as to say that Sasha had little fear of the 
result. 

The tables were spread in the great hall, where places 
for one hundred chosen guests were arranged on the 
floor, while the three or four hundred of minor importance 
were provided for in the galleries above. By noon the 
whole party were assembled. The halls and passages 
of the castle were already permeated with rich and unc- 
.tuous smells, and a delicate nose might have picked out 
and arranged, by their finer or coarser vapors, the dishes 
preparing for the upper and lower tables. One of the 
parasites of Prince Alexis, a dilapidated nobleman, offici- 
ated as Grand Marshal, — an office which more than com- 


1 6 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


pensated for the savage charity he received, for it was per- 
formed in continual fear and trembling. The Prince had 
felt the stick of the Great Peter upon his own back, and 
was ready enough to imitate any custom of the famous 
monarch. 

An orchestra, composed principally of horns and brass 
instruments, occupied a separate gallery at one end of the 
dining-hall. The guests were assembled in the adjoining 
apartments, according to their rank ; and when the first 
loud blast of the instruments announced the beginning of 
the banquet, two very differently attired and freighted 
processions of servants made their appearance at the same 
time. Those intended for the princely table numbered 
two hundred, — two for each guest. They were the hand- 
somest young men among the ten thousand serfs, clothed 
in loose white trousers and shirts of pink or lilac silk ; 
their soft golden hair, parted in the middle, fell upon their 
shoulders, and a band of gold-thread about the brow pre- 
vented it from sweeping the dishes they carried. They 
entered the reception-room, bearing huge trays of sculp- 
tured silver, upon which were anchovies, the finest Finnish 
caviar, sliced oranges, cheese, and crystal flagons of Cog- 
nac, rum, and kilmmel. There were fewer servants for 
the remaining guests, who were gathered in a separate 
chamber, and regaled with the common black caviar, 
onions, bread, and vodki. At the second blast of trum- 
pets, the two companies set themselves in motion and en- 
tered the dining-hall at opposite ends. Our business, 
however, is only with the principal personages, so we will 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


17 


allow the common crowd quietly to mount to the galleries 
and satisfy their senses with the coarser viands, while their 
imagination is stimulated by the sight of the splendor and 
luxury below. 

Prince Alexis entered first, with a pompous, mincing 
gait, leading the Princess Martha by the tips of her fin- 
gers. He wore a caftan of green velvet laced with gold, 
a huge vest of crimson brocade, and breeches of yellow 
satin. A wig, resembling clouds boiling in the confluence 
of opposing winds, surged from his low, broad forehead, 
and flowed upon his shoulders. As his small, fiery eyes 
swept the hall, every servant trembled : he was as severe 
at the commencement as he was reckless at the close of a 
banquet. The Princess Martha wore a robe of pink satin 
embroidered with flowers made of small pearls, and a 
train and head-dress of crimson velvet. Her emeralds 
were the finest outside of Moscow, and she wore them all. 
Her pale, weak, frightened face was quenched in the daz- 
zle of the green fires which shot from her forehead, ears, 
and bosom, as she moved. 

Prince Paul of Kostroma and the Princess Nadejda 
followed ; but on reaching the table, the gentlemen took 
their seats at the head, while the ladies marched down to 
the foot. Their seats were determined by their relative 
rank, and woe to him who was so ignorant or so absent- 
minded as to make a mistake ! The servants had been 
carefully trained in advance by the Grand Marshal ; and 
whoever took a place above his rank or importance found, 
when he came to sit down, that his chair had miraculously 


1 8 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 

disappeared, or, not noticing the fact, seated himself ab- 
surdly and violently upon the floor. The Prince at the 
head of the table, and the Princess at the foot, with their 
nearest guests of equal rank, ate from dishes of massive 
gold ; the others from silver. As soon as the last of the 
company had entered the hall, a crowd of jugglers, tum- 
blers, dwarfs, and Calmucks followed, crowding them- 
selves into the corners under the galleries, where they 
awaited the conclusion of the banquet to display their 
tricks, and scolded and pummelled each other in the 
mean time. 

On one side of Prince Alexis the bear Mishka took 
his station. By order of Prince Boris he had been kept 
from wine for several days, and his small eyes were keen- 
er and hungrier than usual. As he rose now and then, 
impatiently, and sat upon his hind legs, he formed a curi- 
ous contrast to the Prince’s other supporter, the idiot, who 
sat also in his tow-shirt, with a large pewter basin in his 
hand. It was difficult to say whether the beast was most 
man or the man most beast. They eyed each other and 
watched the motions of their lord with equal jealousy ; 
and the dismal whine of the bear found an echo in the 
drawling, slavering laugh of the idiot. The Prince glanced 
form one to the other ; they put him in a capital humor, 
^ which was not lessened as he perceived an expression of 
envy pass over the face of Prince Paul. 

The dinner commenced with a botvinia — something 
between a soup and a salad — of wonderful composition. 
It contained cucumbers, cherries, salt fish, melons, bread, 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


19 


salt, pepper, and wine. While it was being served, four 
huge fishermen, dressed to represent mermen of the Volga, 
naked to the waist, with hair crowned with reeds, legs 
finned with silver tissue from the knees downward, and 
preposterous scaly tails, which dragged helplessly upon 
the floor, entered the hall, bearing a broad, shallow tank 
of silver. In the tank flapped and swam four superb ster- 
lets, their ridgy backs rising out of the water like those 
of alligators. Great applause welcomed this new and 
classical adaptation of the old custom of showing the living 
fish, before cooking them, to the guests at the table. The 
invention was due to Simon Petrovitch, and was (if the 
truth must be confessed) the result of certain carefully 
measured supplies of brandy which Prince Boris himself 
had carried to the imprisoned poet. 

After the sterlets had melted away to their backbones, 
and the roasted geese had shrunk into drumsticks and 
breastplates, and here and there a guest’s ears began to 
redden with more rapid blood, Prince Alexis judged that 
the time for diversion had arrived. He first filled up the 
idiot’s basin with fragments of all the dishes within his 
reach, — fish, stewed fruits, goose fat, bread, boiled cabbage, 
and beer, — the idiot grinning with delight all the while, 
and singing, “ Ne uyesjai golubchik moi ” (Don’t go away, 
my little pigeon), between the handfuls which he crammed 
into his mouth. The guests roared with laughter, espec- 
ially when a juggler or Calmuck stole out from under the 
gallery, and pretended to have designs upon the basin. 
Mishka, the bear, had also been well fed, and greedily 


20 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


drank ripe old Malaga from the golden dish. But, alas ! 
he would not dance. Sitting up on his hind legs, with his 
fore paws hanging before him, he cast a drunken, lan- 
guishing eye upon the company, lolled out his tongue, 
and whined with an almost human voice. The domestics, * 
secretly incited by the Grand Marshal, exhausted their 
ingenuity in coaxing him, but in vain. Finally, one of 
them took a goblet of wine in one hand, and, embracing 
Mishka with the other, began to waltz. The bear 
stretched out his paw and clumsily followed the move- 
ments, whirling round and round after the enticing goblet. 
The orchestra struck up, and the spectacle, though not 
exactly what Prince Alexis wished, was comical enough 
to divert the company immensely. 

But the close^ of the performance was not upon the 
programme. The impatient bear, getting no nearer his 
goblet, hugged the man violently with the other paw, 
striking his claws through the thin shirt. The dance- 
measure was lost ; the legs of the two tangled, and they 
fell to the floor, the bear undermost. With a growl of 
rage and disappointment, he brought his teeth together 
through the man’s arm, and it might have fared badly with 
the latter, had not the goblet been refilled by some one 
and held to the animal’s nose. Then, releasing his hold, 
he sat up again, drank another bottle, and staggered out 
of the hall. 

Now the health of Prince Alexis was drunk, — by the 
guests on the floor of the hall in Champagne, by those in 
the galleries in kis/iscki and hydromel. The orchestra 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


21 


played ; a choir of serfs sang an ode by Simon Petrovitch, 
in which the departure of Prince Boris was mentioned ; 
the tumblers began to posture ; the jugglers came forth 
and played their tricks ; and the cannon on the ramparts 
announced to all Kinesma, and far up and down the Volga, 
that the company were rising from the table. 

Half an hour later, the great red slumber-flag floated 
over the castle. All slept, — except the serf with the 
wounded arm, the nervous Grand Marshal, and Simon Pe- 
trovich with his band of dramatists, guarded by the inde- 
fatigable Sasha. All others slept, — and the curious crowd 
outside, listening to the music, stole silently away ; down 
in Kinesma, the mothers ceased to scold their children, 
and the merchants whispered to each other in the bazaar ; 
the captains of vessels floating on the Volga directed their 
men by gestures ; the mechanics laid aside hammer and 
axe, and lighted their pipes. Great silence fell upon the 
land, and continued unbroken so long as Prince Alexis 
and his guests slept the sleep of the just and the tipsy. 

By night, however, they were all awake and busily pre- 
paring for the diversions of the evening. The ball-room 
was illuminated by thousands of wax-lights, so connected 
with inflammable threads, that the wicks could all be kin- 
dled in a moment. A pyramid of tar-barrels had been 
erected on each side of the castle-gate, and every hill or 
mound on the opposite bank of the Volga was similarly 
crowned. When, to a stately march, — the musicians blow- 
ing their loudest, — Prince Alexis and Princess Martha led 
the way to the ball-room, the signal was given : candles 


22 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


and tar-barrels burst into flame, and not only within the 
castle, but over the landscape for five or six versts, around 
everything was bright and clear in the fiery day. Then 
the noises of Kinesma were not only permitted, but en- 
couraged. Mead and qvass flowed in the very streets, and 
the castle trumpets could not be heard for the sound of 
troikas and balalaikas. 

After the Polonaise, and a few stately minuets, (copied 
from the court of Elizabeth), the company were ushered 
into the theatre. The hour of Simon Petrovitch had 
struck: with the inspiration smuggled to him by Prince 
Boris, he had arranged a performance which he felt to be 
his masterpiece. Anxiety as to its reception kept him so- 
ber. The overture had ceased, the spectators were all 
in their seats, and now the curtain rose. The background 
was a growth of enormous, sickly toad-stools, supposed to 
be clouds. On the stage stood a girl of eighteen, (the 
handsomest in Kinesma), in hoops and satin petticoat, 
powdered hair, patches, and high-heeled shoes. She held 
a fan in one hand, and a bunch of marigolds in the other. 
After a deep and graceful curtsy to the company, she came 
forward and said, — 

“ I am the goddess Venus. I have come to Olympus 
to ask some questions of Jupiter.” 

Thunder was heard, and a car rolled upon the stage. 
Jupiter sat therein, in a blue coat, yellow vest, ruffled shirt 
and three-cornered hat. One hand held a bunch of thun- 
derbolts, which he occasionally lifted and shook ; the oth- 
er, a gold-headed cane. 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


23 

“ Here am, I Jupiter,” said he ; “ what does Venus 
desire ? ” 

A poetical dialogue then followed, to the effect that 
the favorite of the goddess, Prince Alexis of Kinesma, was 
about sending his son, Prince Boris, into the gay world, 
wherein himself had already displayed all the gifts of all 
the divinities of Olympus. He claimed from her, Venus, 
like favors for his son : was it possible to grant them ? Ju- 
piter dropped his head and meditated. He could not an- 
swer the question at once : Apollo, the Graces, and the 
Muses must be consulted : there were few precedents 
where the son had succeeded in rivalling the father, — yet the 
fathers pious wishes could not be overlooked. 

Venus said, — 

“ What I asked for Prince Alexis was for his sake : 
what I ask for the son is for the father’s sake.” 

Jupiter shook his thunderbolt and called “Apollo ! ” 

Instantly the stage was covered with explosive and 
coruscating fires, — red, blue, and golden, — and amid 
smoke, and glare, and fizzing noises, and strong chemical 
smells, Apollo dropped down from above. He was accus- 
tomed to heat and smoke, being the cook’s assistant, and 
was sweated down to a weight capable of being supported 
by the invisible wires. He wore a yellow caftan, and 
wide blue silk trousers. His yellow hair was twisted 
around and glued fast to gilded sticks, which stood out 
from his head in a circle, and represented rays of light. 
He first bowed to Prince Alexis, then to the guests, then to 
Jupiter, then to Venus. The matter was explained to him 


24 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


He promised to do what he could towards favoring the 
world with a second generation of the beauty, grace, intel- 
lect, and nobility of character which had already won his 
regard. He thought, however, that their gifts were unnec- 
essary, since the model was already in existence, and 
nothing more could be done than to imitate it. 

(Here there was another meaning bow towards Prince 
Alexis, — a bow in which Jupiter and Venus joined. This 
was the great point of the evening, in the opinion of Simon 
Petrovitch. He peeped through a hole in one of the 
clouds, and, seeing the delight of Prince Alexis and the 
congratulations of his friends, immediately took a large glass 
of Cognac). 

The Graces were then summoned, and after them the 
Muses, — all in hoops, powder, and paint. Their songs 
had the same burden, — intense admiration of the father, 
and good-will for the son, underlaid with a delicate doubt. 
The close was a chorus of all the deities and semi-deities 
in praise of the old Prince, with the accompaniment of 
fireworks. Apollo rose through the air like a frog, with 
his blue legs and yellow arms wide apart ; Jupiter’s char- 
iot rolled off ; Venus bowed herself back against a moul- 
dy cloud ; and the Muses came forward in a bunch, with 
a wreath of laurel, which they placed upon the venerated 
head. 

Sasha was dispatched to bring the poet, that he might 
receive his well-earned praise and reward. But alas for 
Simon Petrovitch ? His legs had already doubled under 
him. He was awarded fifty rubles and a new caftan, 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 2 5 

which he was not in a condition to accept until several 
days afterward. 

The supper which followed resembled the dinner, ex- 
cept that there were fewer dishes and more bottles. When 
the closing course of sweatmeats had either been consumed 
or transferred to the pockets of the guests, the Princess 
Martha retired with the ladies. The guests of lower rank 
followed ; and there remained only some fifteen or twen- 
ty, who were thereupon conducted by Prince Alexis to a 
smaller chamber, where he pulled off his coat, lit his pipe, 
and called for brandy. The others followed his example, 
and their revelry wore out the night. 

Such was the festival which preceded the departure of 
Prince Boris for St. Petersburg. 

IV. 

Before following the young Prince and his fortunes, 
in the capital, we must relate two incidents which some- 
what disturbed the ordered course of life in the castle of 
Kinesma, during the first month or two after his departure. 

It must be stated, as one favorable trait in the charac- 
ter of Prince Alexis, that, however brutally he treated his 
serfs, he allowed no other man to oppress them. All they 
had and were — their services, bodies, lives— belonged to 
him ; hence injustice towards them was disrespect towards 
their lord. Under the fear which his barbarity inspired 
lurked a brute-like attachment, kept alive by the recogni- 
tion of this quality. 


2 


2 6 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 

One day it was reported to him that Gregor, a merchant 
in the bazaar at Kinesma, had cheated the wife of one of 
his serfs in the purchase of a piece of cloth. Mounting 
his horse, he rode at once to Gregor’s booth, called for 
the cloth, and sent the entire piece to the woman, in the 
merchant’s name, as a confessed act of reparation. 

“ Now, Gregor, my child,” said he, as he turned his 
horse’s head, “ have a care in future, and play me no more 
dishonest tricks. Do you hear ? I shall come and take 
your business in hand myself, if the like happens again.” 

Not ten days passed before the like — or something 
fully as bad — did happen. Gregor must have been a 
new comer in Kinesma, or he would not have tried the 
experiment. In an hour from the time it was announced, 
Prince Alexis appeared in the bazaar with a short whip 
under his arm. 

He dismounted at the booth with an ironical smile on 
his face, which chilled the very marrow in the merchant’s 
bones. 

“ Ah, Gregor, my child,” he shouted, “ you have al- 
ready forgotten my commands. Holy St. Nicholas, what 
a bad memory the boy has ! Why, he can’t be trusted to 
do business : I must attend to the shop myself. Out of 
the way ! march ! ” 

He swung his terrible whip ; and Gregor, with his two 
assistants, darted under the counter, and made their es- 
cape. The Prince then entered the booth, took up a 
yard-stick, and cried out in a voice which could be heard 
from one end of the town to the other, — “ Ladies and 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


27 


gentlemen, have the kindness to come and examine our 
stock of goods ! We have silks and satins, and all kinds 
of ladies’ wear ; also velvet, cloth, cotton, and linen for 
the gentlemen. Will your Lordships deign to choose? 
Here are stockings and handkerchiefs of the finest. We 
understand how to measure, your Lordships, and we sell 
cheap. We give no change, and take no small money. 
Whoever has no cash may have credit. Every thing sold 
below cost, on account of closing up the establishment. 
Ladies and gentlemen, give us a call ? ” 

Everybody in Kinesma flocked to the booth, and for 
three hours Prince Alexis measured and sold, either for 
scant cash or long credit, until the last article had been 
disposed of and the shelves were empty. There was 
great rejoicing in the community over the bargains made 
that day. When all was over, Gregor was summoned, 
and the cash received paid into his hands. 

“ It won’t take you long to count it,” said the Prince ; 
but here is a list of debts to be collected, which will fur- 
nish you with pleasant occupation, and enable you to ex- 
ercise your memory. Would your Worship condescend 
to take dinner to-day with your humble assistant ? He 
would esteem it a favor to be permitted to wait upon you 
with whatever his poor house can supply.” 

Gregor gave a glance at the whip under the Prince’s 
arm, and begged to be excused. But the latter would 
take no denial, and carried out the comedy to the end 
by giving the merchant the place of honor at his table, 
and dismissing him with the present of a fine pup of his 


28 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


favorite breed. Perhaps the animal acted as a mnemonic 
symbol, for Gregor was never afterwards accused of for- 
getfulness. 

If this trick put the Prince in a good humor, some- 
thing presently occurred which carried him to the oppo- 
site extreme. While taking his customary siesta one af- 
ternoon, a wild young fellow — one of his noble poor rela- 
tions, who “sponged” at the castle — happened to pass 
along a corridor outside of the very hall where his High- 
ness was snoring. Two ladies in waiting looked down 
from an upper window. The young fellow perceived 
them, and made signs to attract their attention. Having 
succeeded in this, he attempted, by all sorts of antics 
and grimaces, to make them laugh or speak ; but he failed, 
for the slumber-flag waved over them, and its fear was 
upon them. Then, in a freak of incredible rashness, he 
sang, in a loud voice, the first line of a popular ditty, and 
took to his heels. 

No one had ever before dared to insult the sacred quiet 
The Prince was on his feet in a moment, and rushed into 
the corridor, (dropping his mantle of sables by the way,) 
shouting. — 

“ Bring me the wretch who sang ! ” 

The domestics scattered before him, for his face was 
terrible to look upon. Some of them had heard the voice, 
indeed, but not one of them had seen the culprit, who al - 
ready lay upon a heap of hay in one of the stables, and 
appeared to be sunk in innocent sleep. 

“ Who was it ? who was it ? ” yelled the Prince, foam- 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 29 

ing at the mouth with rage, as he rushed from chamber to 
chamber. 

At last he halted at the top of the great flight of steps 
leading into the court-yard, and repeated his demand in a 
voice of thunder. The servants, trembling, kept at a safe 
distance, and some of them ventured to state that the of- 
fender could not be discovered. The Prince turned and 
entered one of the state apartments, whence came the 
sound of porcelain smashed on the floor, and mirrors 
shivered on the walls. Whenever they heard that sound, 
the immates of the castle knew that a hurricane was let 
loose. 

They deliberated hurriedly and anxiously. What was 
to be done ? In his fits of blind animal rage, there was 
nothing of which the Prince was not capable, and the fit 
could be allayed only by finding a victim. No one, how- 
ever, was willing to be a Curtius for the others, and mean- 
while the storm was increasing from minute to minute. 
Some of the more active and shrewd of the household 
pitched upon the leader of the band, a simple-minded, 
good-natured serf, named Waska. They entreated him 
to take upon himself the crime of having sung, offering 
to have his punishment mitigated in every possible way. 
He was proof against their tears, but not against the 
money which they finally offered, in order to avert the 
storm. The agreement was made, although Waska both 
scratched his head and shook it, as he reflected upon the 
probable result. 

The Prince, after his work of destruction, again ap- 


30 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


peared upon the steps, and with hoarse voice and flashing 
eyes, began to announce that every soul in the castle 
should receive a hundred lashes, when a noise was heard 
in the court, and amid cries of “ Here he is ! ” “ We’ve 
got him, Highness ! ” the poor Waska, bound hand and 
foot, was brought forward. They placed him at the 
bottom of the steps. The Prince descended until the two 
stood face to face. The others looked on from court- 
yard, door, and window. A pause ensued, during which 
no one dared to breathe. 

At last Prince Alexis spoke, in a loud and terrible 
voice — 

“ It was you who sang it ? ” 

“ Yes, your Highness, it was I,” Waska replied, in a 
scarcely audible tone, dropping his head and mechanic- 
ally drawing his shoulders together, as if shrinking from 
the coming blow. 

It was full three minutes before the Prince again 
spoke. He still held the whip in his hand, his eyes fixed 
and the muscles of his face rigid. All at once the spell 
seemed to dissolve : his hand fell, and he said in his or- 
dinary voice — 

“ You sing remarkably well. Go, now : you shall 
have ten rubles and an embroidered caftan for your sing- 
ing.” 

But any one would have made a great mistake who 
dared to awaken Prince Alexis a second time in the same 


manner. 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


31 


V. 

Prince Boris, in St. Petersburg, adopted the usual 
habits of his class. He dressed elegantly ; he drove a 
dashing troika ; he played, and lost more frequently than 
he won ; he took no special pains to shun any form of 
fashionable dissipation. His money went fast, it is true ; 
but twenty-five thousand rubles was a large sum in those 
days, and Boris did not inherit his father’s expensive 
constitution. He was presented to the Empress ; but 
his thin face, and mild, melancholy eyes did not make 
much impression upon that ponderous woman. He fre- 
quented the salons of the nobility, but saw no face so 
beautiful as that of Parashka, the serf-maiden who per- 
sonated Venus for Simon Petrovitch. Thefact.is, he had 
a dim, undeveloped instinct of culture, and a crude, half- 
conscious worship of beauty, — both of which qualities 
found just enough nourishment in the life of the capital 
to tantalize and never satisfy his nature. He was excited 
by his new experience, but hardly happier. 

Athough but three-and-twenty, he would never know 
the rich, vital glow with which youth rushes to clasp all 
forms of sensation. He had seen, almost daily, in his 
father’s castle, excess in its most excessive development. 
It had grown to be repulsive, and he knew not how to 
fill the void in his life. With a single spark of genius, 
and a little more culture, he might have become a pass- 
able author or artist ; but he was doomed to be one of 
those deaf and dumb natures that see the movements of 
the lips of others, yet have no conception of sound. No 


32 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


wonder his savage old father looked upon him with con- 
tempt, for even his vices were without strength or charac- 
ter. 

The dark winter days passed by, one by one, and the 
first week of Lent had already arrived to subdue the 
glittering festivities of the court, when the only genuine 
adventure of the season happened to the young Prince. 
For adventures, in the conventional sense of the word, he 
was not distinguished ; whatever came to him must come 
by its own force, or the force of destiny. 

One raw, gloomy evening, as dusk was setting in, he 
saw a female figure in a droschky, which was about turn- 
ing from the great Morskoi into the Gorokhovaya (Pea) 
Street. He noticed, listlessly, that the lady was dressed 
in black, closely veiled, and appeared to be urging the 
istwstchik (driver) to make better speed. The latter cut 
his horse sharply: it sprang forward, just at the turning, 
and the droschky, striking a lamp-post was instantly 
overturned. The lady, hurled with great force upon the 
solidly frozen snow, lay motionless, which the driver ob- 
serving, he righted the sled and drove off at full speed, 
without looking behind him. It was not inhumanity, 
but fear of the knout that hurried him away. 

Prince Boris looked up and down the Morskoi, but 
perceived no one near at hand. He then knelt upon the 
snow, lifted the lady’s head to his knee, and threw back 
her veil. A face so lovely, in spite of its deadly pallor, 
he had never before seen. Never had he even imagin- 
ed so perfect an oval, such a sweet, fair forehead, such 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


33 


delicately pencilled brows, so fine and straight a nose, 
such wonderful beauty of mouth and chin. It was for- 
tunate that she was not very severely stunned, for Prince 
Boris was not only ignorant of the usual modes of restor- 
ation in such cases, but he totally forgot their necessity, 
in his rapt contemplation of the lady’s face. Presently 
she opened her eyes, and they dwelt, expressionless, but 
bewildering in their darkness and depth, upon his own, 
while her consciousness of things slowly returned. 

She strove to rise, and Boris gently lifted and sup- 
ported her. She would have withdrawn from his help- 
ing arm, but was still too weak from the shock. He, 
also, was confused and (strange to say) embarrassed ; 
but he had self-possession enough to shout, “ Davai /” 
(Here !) at random. The call was answered from the Ad- 
miralty Square ; a sled dashed up the Gorokhovaya and 
halted beside him. Taking the single seat, he lifted 
her gently upon his lap and held her very tenderly in 
his arms. 

“ Where ? ” asked the istvostchik. 

Boris was about to answer “ Anywhere ! ” but the 
lady whispered in a voice of silver sweetness, the name 
of a remote street, near the Smolnoi Church. 

As the Prince wrapped the ends of his sable pelisse 
about her, he noticed that her furs were of the common 
foxskin worn by the middle classes. They, with her heavy 
boots and the threadbare cloth of her garments, by no 
means justified his first suspicion, — that she was a grand , > 
dame , engaged in some romantic “adventure.” She was 


34 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


not more than nineteen or twenty years of age, and he 
felt — without knowing what it was — the atmosphere of 
sweet, womanly purity and innocence which surrounded 
her. The shyness of a lost boyhood surprised him. 

By the time they had reached the Litenie, she had 
fully recovered her consciousness and a portion of her 
strength. She drew away from him as much as the nar- 
row sled would allow. 

“ You have been very kind, sir, and I thank you,” she 
said ; “ but I am now able to go home without your fur- 
ther assistance.” 

“ By no means, lady ! ” said the Prince. “ The streets 
are rough, and here are no lamps. If a second accident 
were to happen, you would be helpless. Will you not 
allow me to protect you ? ” 

She looked him in the face. In the dusky light, she 
saw not the peevish, weary features of the worldling, but 
only the imploring softness of his eyes, the full and per- 
fect honesty of his present emotion. She made no fur- 
ther objection ; perhaps she was glad that she could trust 
the elegant stranger. 

Boris, never before at a loss for words, even in the 
presence of the Empress, was astonished to find how awk- 
ward were his attempts at conversation. She was pre- 
sently the more self-possessed of the two, and nothing 
was ever so sweet to his ears as the few commonplace re- 
marks she uttered. In spite of the darkness and the 
chilly air, the sled seemed to fly like lightning. Before 
he supposed they had made half the way, she gave a sign 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 35 

to the istvostchik, and they drew up before a plain house 
of squared logs. 

The two lower windows were lighted, and the dark fig- 
ure of an old man, with a skull-cap upon his head, was 
framed in one of them. It vanished as the sled stopped ; 
the door was thrown open and the man came forth hur- 
riedly, followed by a Russian nurse with a lantern. 

“ Helena, my child, art thou come at last ? What has 
befallen thee ? ” 

He would evidently have said more, but the sight of 
Prince Boris caused him to pause, while a quick shade of 
suspicion and alarm passed over his face. The Prince 
stepped forward, instantly relieved of his unaccustomed 
timidity, and rapidly described the accident. The old 
nurse Katinka, had meanwhile assisted the lovely Helena 
into the house. 

The old man turned to follow, shivering in the night- 
air. Suddenlyrecollecting himself, he begged the Prince 
to enter and take some refreshments, but with the air and 
tone of a man who hopes that his invitation will not be 
accepted. If such was really his hope, he was disap- 
pointed ; for Boris instantly commanded the istvostchik to 
wait for him, and entered the humble dwelling. 

The apartment into which he was ushered was spa- 
cious, and plainly, yet not shabbily furnished. A violon- 
cello and clavichord, with several portfolios of music, and 
scattered sheets of ruled paper, proclaimed the profession 
or the taste of the occupant. Having excused himself a 
moment to look after his daughter’s condition, the old 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


36 

man, on his return, found Boris turning over the leaves 
of a musical work. 

“ You see my profession,” he said. “ I teach music ? ” 

“ Do you not compose ? ” asked the Prince. 

“That was once my ambition. I was a pupil of Se- 
bastian Bach. But — circumstances — necessity — brought 
me here. Other lives changed the direction of mine. It 
was right ! ” 

“You mean your daughter’s?” the Prince gently sug- 
gested. 

“ Hers and her mother’s. Our story was well known 
in St. Petersburg twenty years ago, but I suppose no one 
recollects it now. My wife was the daughter of a Baron 
von Plauen, and loved music and myself better than her 
home and a titled bridegroom. She escaped, we united 
our lives, suffered and were happy together, — and she 
died. That is all.” 

Further conversation was interrupted by the entrance 
of Helena, with steaming glasses of tea. She was even 
lovelier than before. Her close-fitting dress revealed the 
symmetry of her form, and the quiet, unstudied grace of 
her movements. Although her garments were of well- 
worn material, the lace which covered her bosom was gen- 
uine point d’Alen§on, of an old and rare pattern. Boris 
felt that her air and manner were thoroughly noble ; he 
rose and saluted her with the profoundest respect. 

In spite of the singular delight which her presence oc- 
casioned him, he was careful not to prolong his visit be- 
yond the limits of strict etiquette^. His name, Boris Alex- 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


37 


eivitch, only revealed to his guests the name of his father, 
without his rank ; and when he stated that he was employ- 
ed in one of the Departments, ( which was true in a meas- 
ure, for he was a staff officer,) they could only look upon 
him as being, at best, a member of some family whose 
recent elevation to the nobility did not release them from 
the necessity of Government service. Of course he em- 
ployed the usual pretext of wishing to study music, and 
either by that or some other stratagem managed to leave 
matters in such a shape that a second visit could not oc- 
casion surprise. 

As the sled glided homewards over the crackling snow, 
he was obliged to confess the existence of a new and pow- 
erful excitement. Was it the chance of an adventure, 
such as certain of his comrades were continually seeking ? 
He thought not ; no, decidedly not. Was it— could it be 
— love ? He really could not tell ; he had not the slightset 
idea what love was like. 


VI. 

It was something at least, that the plastic and not un- 
virtuous nature of the young man was directed towards a 
definite object. The elements out of which he was made, 
although somewhat diluted, were active enough to make 
him uncomfortable, so long as they remained in a confused 
state. He had very little power of introversion, but he 
was sensible that his temperament was changing, — that he 
grew more cheerful and contented with life, — that a chasm 


38 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


somewhere was filling up —just in proportion as his ac- 
quaintance with the old music-master and his daughter be- 
came more familiar. His visits were made so brief, were 
so adroitly timed and accounted for by circumstances, that 
by the close of Lent he could feel justified in making the 
Easter call of a friend, and claim its attendant privileges, 
without fear of being repulsed. 

That Easter call was an era in his life. At the risk of 
his wealth and rank being suspected, he dressed himself 
in new and rich garments, and hurried away towards the 
Smolnoi. The old nurse, Katinka, in her scarlet gown, 
opened the door for him, and was the first to say, “ Christ 
is arisen ! ” What could he do but give her the usual kiss ? 
Formerly he had kissed hundreds of serfs, men and wo- 
men, on the sacred anniversary, with a passive good-will. 
But Katinka’s kiss seemed bitter, and he secretly rubbed 
his mouth after it. The music-master came next : grisly 
though he might be, he was the St. Peter who stood at the 
gate of heaven. Then entered Helena, in white, like an 
angel. He took her hand, pronounced the Easter greet- 
ing, and scarcely waited for the answer, “ Truly he has 
arisen ! ” before his lips found the way to hers. For a 
second they warmly trembled and glowed together ; and 
in another second some new and sweet and subtle relation 
seemed to be established between their natures. 

That night Prince Boris wrote a long letter to his 
“ chlre maman” in piquantly misspelt French, giving her 
the gossip of the court, and such family news as she usual- 
ly craved. The purport of the letter, however, was only 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


39 


disclosed in the final paragraph, and then in so negative a 
way that it is doubtful whether the Princess Martha fully 
understood it. 

“ Poingde mciriajes pour moix ! ” he wrote, — but we will 
drop the original, — “ I don’t think of such a thing yet. 
Pashkoff dropped a hint, the other day, but I kept my 
eyes shut. Perhaps you remember her ? — fat, thick lips, 

and crooked teeth. Natalie D said to me, “ Have 

you ever been in love, Prince ? ” Have I, maman ? I did 
not know what answer to make. What is love ? How does 
one feel, when one has it ? They laugh at it here, and of 
course I should not wish to do what is laughable. Give me 
a hint : forewarned is forearmed, you know,” — etc., etc. 

Perhaps the Princess Martha did suspect something ; 
perhaps some word in her son’s letter touched a secret 
spot far back in her memory, and renewed a dim, if not 
very intelligible, pain. She answered his question at 
length, in the style of the popular French romances of 
that day. She had much to say of dew and roses, turtle- 
doves and the arrows of Cupid. 

“ Ask thyself,” she wrote, “ whether felicity comes with 
her presence, and distraction with her absence, — whether 
her eyes make the morning brighter for thee, and her 
tears fall upon thy heart like molten lava, — whether heav- 
en would be black and dismal without her company, and 
the flames of hell turn into roses under her feet.” 

It was very evident that the good Princess Martha had 
never felt — nay, did not comprehend — a passion such as 
she described. 


40 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


Prince Boris, however, whose veneration for his moth- 
er was unbounded, took her words literally, and applied 
the questions to himself. Although he found it difficult, 
in good faith and sincerity, to answer all of them affirma- 
tively (he was puzzled, for instance, to know the sensation 
of molten lava falling upon the heart), yet the general con- 
clusion was inevitable : Helena was necessary to his hap- 
piness. 

Instead of returning to Kinesma for the summer, as 
had been arranged, he determined to remain in St. Peters- 
burg, under the pretence of devoting himself to military 
studies. This change of plan occasioned more disap- 
pointment to the Princess Martha than vexation to Prince 
Alexis. The latter only growled at the prospect of being 
called upon to advance a further supply of rubles, slightly 
comforting himself with the muttered reflection, — 

“ Perhaps the brat will make a man of himself, after 
all.” 

It was not many weeks, in fact, before the expected 
petition came to hand. The Princess Martha had also 
foreseen it, and instructed her son how to attack his fath- 
er’s weak side. The latter was furiously jealous of certain 
other noblemen of nearly equal wealth, who were with him 
at the court of Peter the Great, as their sons now were at 
that of Elizabeth. Boris compared the splendor of these 
young noblemen with his own moderate estate, fabled a 
few “ adventures ” and drinking-bouts, and announced his 
determination of doing honor to the name which Prince 
Alexis of Kinesma had left behind him in the capital. 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


41 


There was cursing at the castle when the letter arrived. 
Many serfs felt the sting of the short whip, the slumber- 
flag was hoisted five minutes later than usual, and the con- 
sumption of Cognac was alarming ; but no mirror was 
smashed, and when Prince Alexis read the letter to his 
poor relations, he even chuckled over some portions of it. 
Boris had boldly demanded twenty thousand rubles, in the 
desperate hope of receiving half that amount, — and he 
had calculated correctly. 

Before midsummer he was Helena’s accepted lover. 
Not, however, until then, when her father had given his 
consent to their marriage in the autumn, did he disclose 
his true rank. The old man’s face lighted up with a glow 
of selfish satisfaction ; but Helena quietly took her lover’s 
hand, and said, — 

“ Whatever you are, Boris, I will be faithful to you.” 


VII. 

Leaving Boris to discover the exact form and sub- 
stance of the passion of love, we will return for a time to 
the castle of Kinesma. 

Whether the Princess Martha conjectured what had 
transpired in St. Petersburg, or was partially informed of 
it by her son, cannot now be ascertained. She was suffi- 
ciently weak, timid, and nervous, to be troubled with the 
knowledge of the stratagem in which she had assisted in 
order to procure money, and that the ever-present con- 
sciousness thereof would betray itself to the sharp eyes 


42 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


of her husband. Certain it is, that the demeanor of the 
latter towards her and his household began to change 
about the end of the summer. He seemed to have a 
haunting suspicion, that, in some way he had been, or was 
about to be, overreached. He grew peevish, suspicious, 
and more violent than ever in his excesses. 

When Mishka, the dissipated bear already described, 
bit off one of the ears of Basil, a hunter belonging to the 
castle, and Basil drew his knife and plunged it into Mish- 
ka’s heart, Prince Alexis punished the hunter by cutting 
off his other ear, and sending him away to a distant es- 
tate. A serf, detected in eating a few of the pickled cher- 
ries intended for the Prince’s botvinia, was placed in a 
cask, and pickled cherries packed around him up to the 
chin. There he was kept until almost flayed by the acid. 
It was ordered that these two delinquents should never 
afterwards be called by any Other names than “ Crop-Ear ” 
and “ Cherry.” 

But the Prince’s severest joke, which, strange to say, 
in no wise lessened his popularity among the serfs, occur- 
red a month or two later. One of his leading passions 
was the chase, — especially the chase in his own forests, 
with from one to two hundred men, and no one to dis- 
pute his Lordship. On such occasions, a huge barrel of 
wine, mounted upon a sled, always accompanied the crowd, 
and the quantity which the hunters received depended 
upon the satisfaction of Prince Alexis with the game they 
collected. 

Winter had set in early and suddenly, and one day, as 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


43 


the Prince and his retainers emerged from the forest with 
their forenoon’s spoil, and found themselves on the bank 
of the Volga, the water was already covered with a thin 
sheet of ice. Fires were kindled, a score or two of hares 
and a brace of deer were skinned, and the flesh placed on 
sticks to broil ; skins of mead foamed and hissed into the 
wooden bowls, and the cask of unbroached wine towered 
in the midst. Prince Alexis had a good appetite ; the 
meal was after his heart ; and by the time he had eaten a 
hare and half a flank of venison, followed by several bowls 
of fiery wine, he was in the humor for sport. He ordered 
a hole cut in the upper side of the barrel, as it lay ; then, 
getting astride of it, like a grisly Bacchus, he dipped out 
the liquor with a ladle, and plied his thirsty serfs until 
they became as recklessly savage as he. 

They were scattered over a slope gently falling from 
the dark, dense fir-forest towards the Volga, where it ter- 
minated in a rocky palisade, ten to fifteen feet in height. 
The fires blazed and crackled merrily in the frosty air ; 
the yells and songs of the carousers were echoed back 
from the opposite shore of the river. The chill atmos- 
phere, the lowering sky, and the approaching night could 
not touch the blood of that wild crowd. Their faces 
glowed and their eyes sparkled ; they were ready for any 
deviltry which their lord might suggest. 

Some began to amuse themselves by flinging the clean- 
picked bones of deer and hare along the glassy ice of the 
Volga. Prince Alexis, perceiving this diverson, cried out 
in ecstasy, — 


44 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 

“ Ob, by St. Nicholas the Miracle- Worker, I’ll give 
you better sport than that, ye knaves ! Here’s the very 
place for a reisak , — do you hear me children ? — a reisakf 
Could there be better ice ? and then the rocks to jump 
from ! Come, children, come ! Waska, Ivan, Daniel, 
you dogs, over with you ! ” 

Now the reisak was a gymnastic performance peculiar 
to old Russia, and therefore needs to be described. It 
could become popular only among a people of strong 
physical qualities, and in a country where swift rivers 
freeze rapidly from sudden cold. Hence we are of the 
opinion that it will not be introduced into our own winter 
diversions. A spot is selected where the water is deep 
and the current tolerably strong ; the ice must be about 
half an inch in thickness. The performer leaps head 
foremost from a rock or platform, bursts through the ice, 
is carried under by the current, comes up some distance 
below, and bursts through again. Both skill and strength 
are required to do the feat successfully. 

Waska, Ivan, Daniel, and a number of others, sprang 
to the brink of the rocks and looked over. The wall 
was not quite perpendicular, some large fragments having 
fallen from above and lodged along the base. It would 
therefore require a bold leap to clear the rocks and strike 
the smooth ice. They hesitated, — and no wonder. 

Prince Alexis howled with rage and disappointment. 

“ The Devil take you, for a pack of whimpering 
hounds ! ” he cried. “ Holy Saints ! they are afraid to 
make a reisak ! ” 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


45 


Ivan crossed himself and sprang. He cleared the 
rocks, but, instead of bursting through the ice with his 
head, fell at full length upon his back. 

“ O knave ! ” yelled the Prince, — “ not to know where 
his head is ! Thinks it’s his back ! Give him fifteen 
stripes.” 

Which was instantly done. 

The second attempt was partially successful. One of 
the hunters broke through the ice, head foremost, going 
down, but he failed to come up again ; so the feat was 
only half performed. 

The Prince became more furiously excited. 

“ This is the way I’m treated ! ” he cried. “ He forgets 
all about finishing the reisak , and goes to chasing sterlet ! 
May the carps eat him up for an ungrateful vagabond ! 
Here, you beggars ! ” (addressing the poor relations,) 
“ take your turn, and let me see whether you are men.” 

Only one of the frightened parasites had the courage 
to obey. On reaching the brink, he shut his eyes in mor- 
tal fear, and made a leap at random. The next moment 
he lay on the edge of the ice with one leg broken against 
a fragment of rock. 

This capped the climax of the Prince’s wrath. He fell 
into a state bordering on despair, tore his hair, gnashed 
his teeth, and wept bitterly. 

“ They will be the death of me ! ” was his lament. 
“ Not a man among them ! It wasn’t so in the old times. 
Such beautiful reisaks as I have seen ! But the people are 
becoming women, — hares, — chickens, — skunks ! Vil- 


4 6 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


lains, will you force me to kill you ? You have dishon- 
ored and disgraced me ; I am ashamed to look my neigh- 
bors in the face. Was ever a man so treated ? ” 

The serfs hung down their heads, feeling somehow re- 
sponsible for their master’s misery. Some of them wept, 
out of a stupid sympathy with his tears. 

All at once he sprang down from the cask, crying in a 
gay, triumphant tone, — 

“ I have it ! Bring me Crop-Ear. He’s the fellow for 
a reisak , — he can make three, one after another.” 

One of the boldest ventured to suggest that Crop-Ear 
had been sent away in disgrace to another of the Prince’s 
estates. 

“ Bring him here, I say ? Take horses, and don’t draw 
rein going or coming. I will not stir from this spot until 
Crop-Ear comes.” 

With these words, he mounted the barrel, and recom- 
menced ladling out the wine. Huge fires were made, for 
the night was falling, and the cold had become intense. 
Fresh game was skewered and set to broil, and the tragic 
interlude of the revel was soon forgotten. 

Towards midnight the sound of hoofs was heard, and 
the messengers arrived with Crop- Ear. But, although the 
latter had lost his ears, he was not inclined to split 
his head. The ice, meanwhile, had become so strong 
that a cannon-ball would have made no impression upon 
it. Crop-Ear simply threw down a stone heavier than 
himself, and, as it bounced and slid along the solid floor, 
said to Prince Alexis, — 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


47 


“ Am I to go back, Highness, or stay here ? ” 

“ Here, my son. Thou’rt a man. Come hither to 
me.” 

Taking the serfs head in his hands, Re kissed him on 
both cheeks. Then he rode homeward through the dark, 
iron woods, seated astride on the barrel, and steadying 
himself with his arms around Crop-Ear’s and Waska’s 
necks. 


VIII. 

The health of the Princess Martha, always delicate, now 
began to fail rapidly. She was less and less able to en- 
dure her husband’s savage humors, and lived almost ex- 
clusively in her own apartments. She never mentioned 
the name of Boris in his presence, for it was sure to throw 
him into a paroxysm of fury. Floating rumors in regard 
to the young Prince had reached him from the capital, 
and nothing would convince him that his wife was not 
cognizant of her son’s doings. The poor Princess clung 
to her boy as to all that was left her of life, and tried to 
prop her failing strength with the hope of his speedy re- 
turn. She was now too helpless to thwart his wishes in 
any way ; but she dreaded, more than death, the terrible 
something which would surely take place between father 
and son if her conjectures should prove to be true. 

One day, in the early part of November, she received 
a letter from Boris, announcing his marriage. She had 
barely strength and presence of mind enough to conceal 


48 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


the paper in her bosom before sinking in a swoon. By 
some means or other the young Prince had succeeded in 
overcoming all the obstacles to such a step : probably the 
favor of the Empress was courted, in order to obtain her 
consent. The money he had received, he wrote, would 
be sufficient to maintain them for a few months, though 
not in a style befitting their rank. He was proud and 
bappy ; the Princess Helena would be the reigning beau- 
ty of the court, when he should present her, but he de- 
sired the sanction of his parents to the marriage, before 
taking his place in society. He would write immediately 
to his father, and hoped, that, if the news brought a storm, 
Mishka might be on hand to divert its force, as on a form- 
er occasion. 

Under the weight of this imminent secret, the Princess 
Martha could neither eat nor sleep. Her body wasted 
to a shadow ; at every noise in the castle, she started and 
listened in terror, fearing that the news had arrived. 

Prince Boris, no doubt, found his courage fail him 
when he set about writing the promised letter ; for a fort- 
night elapsed before it made its appearance. Prince Al- 
exis received it on his return from the chase. He read it 
hastily through, uttered a prolonged roar like that of a 
wounded bull, and rushed into the castle. The sound of 
breaking furniture, of crashing porcelain and shivered 
glass, came from the state apartments : the domestics fell 
on their knees and prayed ; the Princess, who heard the 
noise and knew what it portended, became almost insensi- 
ble from fright. 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


49 


One of the upper servants entered a chamber as the 
Prince was in the act of demolishing a splendid malach- 
ite table, which had escaped all his previous attacks. He 
was immediately greeted with a cry of, — 

“ Send the Princess to me ! ” 

“ Her Highness is not able to leave her chamber,” 
the man replied. 

How it happened he could never afterwards describe 
but he found himself lying in a corner of the room. When 
he arose, there seemed to be a singular cavity in his 
mouth : his upper front teeth were wanting. 

We will not narrate what took place in the chamber 
of the Princess. The nerves of the unfortunate woman 
had been so wrought upon by her fears, that her husband’s 
brutal rage, familiar to her from long experience, now 
possessed a new and alarming significance. His threats 
were terrible to hear ; she fell into convulsions, and be- 
fore morning her tormented life was at an end. 

There was now something else to think of, and the 
smashing of porcelain and cracking of whips came to an 
end. The Archimandrite was summoned, and prepara- 
tions, both religious and secular, were made for a funeral 
worthy the rank of the deceased. Thousands flocked to 
Kinesma ; and when the immense procession moved 
away from the castle, although very few of the persons had 
ever known or cared in the least, for the Princess Martha, 
all, without exception, shed profuse tears. Yes, there 
was one exception, — one bare, dry rock, rising alone out 
of the universal deluge, — Prince xilexis himself, who walked 


50 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


behind the coffin, his eyes fixed and his features rigid 
as stone. They remarked that his face was haggard, and 
that the fiery tinge on his cheeks and nose had faded into 
livid purple. The only sign of emotion which he gave 
was a convulsive shudder, which from time to time pass- 
ed over his whole body. 

Three archimandrites (abbots) and one hundred priests 
headed the solemn funeral procession from the castle to 
the church on the opposite hill. There the mass for the 
dead was chanted, the responses being sung by a choir 
of silvery boyish voices. All the appointments were of 
the costliest character. Not only all those within the 
church, but the thousands outside, spared not their tears, 
but wept until the fountains were exhausted. Notice was 
given, at the close of the services, that “baked meats” 
would be furnished to the multitude, and that all beggars 
who came to Kinesma would be charitably fed for the 
space of six weeks. Thus, by her death, the amiable 
Princess Martha was enabled to dispense more charity 
than had been permitted to her life. 

At the funeral banquet which followed, Prince Alexis 
placed the Abbot Sergius at his right hand, and convers- 
ed with him in the most edifying manner upon the necessi- 
ty of leading a pure and godly life. His remarks upon 
the duty of a Christian, upon brotherly love, humility, and 
self-sacrifice, brought tears into the eyes of the listening 
priests. He expressed his conviction that the departed 
Princess, by the piety of her life, had attained unto salva- 
tion, — and added, that his own life had now no fur- 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 5 1 

ther value unless he should devote it to religious ex 
ercises. 

“ Can you not give me a place in your monastery ? ’ 
he asked, turning to the Abbot. “ I will endow it with a 
gift of forty thousand rubles, for the privilege of occupy 4 
ing a monk’s cell.” 

“ Pray, do not decide too hastily, Highness,” the Ab- 
bot replied. “ You have yet a son.” 

“ What ! ” yelled Prince Alexis, with flashing eyes, 
every trace of humility and renunciation vanishing like 
smoke, — “ what ! Borka ? The infamous wretch who 
has ruined me, killed his mother, and brought disgrace 
upon our name ? Do you know that he has married a 
wench of no family and without a farthing, — who would 
be honored, if I should allow her to feed my hogs ? Live 
for him ? live for him ? Ah -r-r-r ! ” 

This outbreak terminated in a sound between a snarl 
and a bellow. The priests turned pale, but the Abbot 
devoutly remarked — 

“ Encompassed by sorrows, Prince, you should hum- 
bly submit to the will of the Lord.” 

“ Submit to Borka?” the Prince scornfully laughed. 
“I know what I’ll do. There’s time enough yet for a 
wife and another child, — ay, — a dozen children ! I can 
have my pick in the province ; and if I couldn’t I’d 
sooner take Masha, the goose-girl, than leave Borka the 
hope of stepping into my shoes. Beggars they shall be, 
— beggars ! ” 

What further he might have said was interrupted by 


52 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


the priests rising to chant the Blajennon uspemiie (blessed 
be the dead), — after which, the trisna , a drink composed 
of mead, wine, and rum, was emptied to the health of the 
departed soul. Every one stood during this ceremony, 
except Prince Alexis, who fell suddenly prostrate before 
the consecrated pictures, and sobbed so passionately that 
the tears of the guests flowed for the third time. There 
he lay until night ; for whenever any one dared to touch 
him, he struck out furiously with fists and feet. Finally 
he fell asleep on the floor, and the servants then bore him 
to his sleeping apartment. 

For several days afterward his grief continued to be 
so violent that the occupants of the castle were obliged 
to keep out of his way. The whip was never out of his 
hand, and he used it very recklessly, not always selecting 
the right person. The parasitic poor relations found 
their situation so uncomfortable, that they decided, one 
and all, to detach themselves from the tree upon which 
they fed and fattened, even at the risk of withering on a 
barren soil. Night and morning the serfs prayed upon 
their knees, with many tears and groans, that the Saints 
might send consolation, in any form, to their desperate 
lord. 

The Saints graciously heard and answered the prayer. 
Word came that a huge bear had been seen in the forest 
stretching towards Juriewetz. The sorrowing Prince 
pricked up his ears, threw down his whip, and ordered a 
chase. Sasha, the broad-shouldered, the cunning, the 
ready, the untiring companion of his master, secretly or- J 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


53 


dered a cask of vodki to follow the crowd of hunters and 
serfs. There was a steel-bright sky, a low, yellow sun, 
and a brisk easterly wind from the heights of the Ural. 
As the crisp snow began to crunch under the Prince’s 
sled, his followers saw the old expression come back to 
his face. With song and halloo and blast of horns, they 
swept away into the forest. 

Saint John the Hunter must have been on guard over 
Russia that day. The great bear was tracked, and after 
a long and exciting chase, fell by the hand of Prince 
Alexis himself. Halt was made in an open space in the 
forest, logs were piled together and kindled on the snow, 
and just at the right moment (which no one knew better 
than Sasha) the cask of vodki rolled into its place. When 
the serfs saw the Prince mount astride of it, with his ladle 
in his hand, they burst into shouts of extravagant joy. 
“ Slava Bogu ! ” (Glory be to God !) came fervently from 
the bearded lips of those hard, rough, obedient children. 
They tumbled headlong over each other, in their efforts 
to drink first from the ladle, to clasp the knees or kiss the 
hands of the restored Prince. And the dawn was glim- 
mering against the eastern stars, as they took the way to 
the castle, making the ghostly fir-woods ring with shout 
and choric song. 

Nevertheless, Prince Alexis was no longer the same 
man ; his giant strength and furious appetite were broken. 
He was ever ready, as formerly, for the chase and the 
drinking-bout ; but his jovial mood no longer grew into a 
crisis which only utter physical exhaustion or the stupidi- 


54 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


ty of drunkenness could overcome. Frequently, While 
astride the cask, his shouts of laughter would suddenly 
cease, the ladle would drop from his hand, and he would 
sit motionless, staring into vacancy for five minutes at a 
time. Then the serfs, too, became silent, and stood still, 
awaiting a change. The gloomy mood passed away as 
suddenly. He would start, look about him, and say, in a 
melancholy voice, — 

“ Have I frightened you, my children ? It seems to 
me that I am getting old. Ah, yes, we must all die, one 
day. But we need not think about it, until the time comes. 
The Devil take me for putting it into my head ! Why, 
how now ? can’t you sing, children ? ” 

Then he would strike up some ditty which they all 
knew : a hundred voices joined in the strain, and the hills 
once more rang with revelry. 

Since the day when the Princess Martha was buried, 
the Prince had not again spoken of marriage. No one, 
of course, dared to mention the name of Boris in his pres- 
ence. 


IX. 

The young Prince had, in reality, become the happy 
husband of Helena. His love for her had grown to be a 
shaping and organizing influence, without which his na- 
ture would have fallen into its former confusion. If a 
thought of a less honorable relation had ever entered his 
mind, it was presently banished by the respect which a 
nearer intimacy inspired ; and thus Helena, magnetically 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


55 


drawing to the surface only his best qualities, loved, un- 
consciously to herself, her own work in him. Ere long, 
she saw that she might balance the advantages he had 
conferred upon her in their marriage by the support and 
encouragement which she was able to impart to him ; and 
this knowledge, removing all painful sense of obligation, 
made her both happy and secure in her new position. 

The Princess Martha, under some presentiment of 
her approaching death, had intrusted one of the ladies in 
attendance upon her with the secret of her son’s marriage, 
m addition to a tender maternal message, and such pres- 
ents of. money and jewelry as she was able to procure 
without her husband’s knowledge. These presents reached 
Boris very opportunely ; for, although Helena developed 
a wonderful skill in regulating his expenses, the spring 
was approaching, and even the limited circle of society in 
which they had moved during the gay season had made 
heavy demands upon his purse. He became restless and 
abstracted, until his wife, who by this time clearly com- 
prehended the nature of his trouble, had secretly decided 
how it must be met. 

The slender hoard of the old music-master, with a few 
thousand rubles from Prince Boris, sufficed for his mod- 
est maintenance. Being now free from the charge of his 
daughter, he determined to visit Germany, and, if circum- 
stances were propitious, to secure a refuge for his old age 
in his favorite Leipsic. Summer was at hand, and the 
court had already removed to Oranienbaum. In a few 
weeks the capital would be deserted. 


56 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


“ Shall we go to Germany with your father ? ” asked 
Boris, as he sat at a window with Helena, enjoying the 
long twilight. 

“No, my Boris,” she answered; “we will go to 
Kinesma.” 

“But — Helena, — golubchik , — mon ange , — are you in 
earnest?” 

“ Yes, my Boris. The last letter from your — our 
cousin Nadejda convinces me that the step must be taken. 
Prince Alexis has grown much older since your mother’s 
death : he is lonely and unhappy. He may not welcome 
us, but he will surely suffer us to come to him ; and we 
must then begin the work of reconciliation. Reflect, my 
Boris, that you have keenly wounded him in the tendefest 
part, — his pride, — and you must therefore cast away your 
own pride, and humbly and respectfully, as becomes a 
son, solicit his pardon.” 

“Yes,” said he, hesitatingly, “you are right. But I 
know his violence and recklessness, as you do not. For 
myself, alone, I am willing to meet him ; yet I fear for 
your sake. Would you not tremble to encounter a mad- 
dened and brutal mujik ? — then how much more to meet 
Alexis Pavlovitch of Kinesma ! ” 

“ I do not and shall not tremble,” she replied. “ It 
is not your marriage that has estranged your father, but 
your marriage with me. Having been, unconsciously, the 
cause of the trouble, I shall deliberately, and as a sacred 
duty, attempt to remove it. Let us go to Kinesma, as 
humble, penitent children, and cast ourselves upon your 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


5 7 


father’s mercy. At the worst, he can but reject us ; and 
you will have given me the consolation of knowing that I 
have tried, as your wife, to annul the sacrifice you have 
made for my sake.” 

“ Be it so, then ! ” cried Boris, with a mingled feeling 
of relief and anxiety. 

He was not unwilling that the attempt should be 
made, especially since it was his wife’s desire ; but he 
knew his father too well to anticipate immediate success. 
All threatening possibilities suggested themselves to his 
mind ; all forms of insult and outrage which he had seen 
perpetrated at Kinesma filled his memory. The suspense 
became at last worse than any probable reality. He wrote 
to his father, announcing a .speedy visit from himself and 
his wife ; and two days afterwards the pair left St. Peters- 
burg in a large travelling kibitka. 


X. 


When Prince Alexis received his son’s letter, an ex- 
pression of fierce, cruel delight crept over his face, and 
there remained, horribly illuminating its haggard features. 
The orders given for swimming horses in the Volga — one 
of his summer diversions — were immediately counter- 
manded ; he paced around the parapet of the castle-wall 
until near midnight, followed by Sasha with a stone jug 
of vodki. The latter had the useful habit, notwithstand- 
ing his stupid face, of picking up the fragments of solilo- 
quy which the Prince dropped, and answering them as if 


53 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


talking to himself. Thus he improved upon and per- 
fected many a hint of cruelty, and was too discreet ever 
to dispute his master’s claim to the invention. 

Sasha, we may be sure, was busy with his devil’s work 
that night. The next morning the stewards and agents 
of Prince Alexis, in castle, village, and field, were sum- 
moned to his presence. 

“ Hark ye ! ” said he ; “ Borka and his trumpery wife 
send me word that they will be here to-morrow. See to 
it that every man, woman, and child, for ten versts out on 
the Moskovskoi road, knows of their coming. Let it be 
known that whoever uncovers his head before them shall 
uncover his back for a hundred lashes. Whomsoever 
they greet may bark like a dog, meeouw like a cat, or bray 
like an ass, as much as he chooses ; but if he speaks a 
decent word, his tongue shall be silenced with stripes. 
Whoever shall insult them has my pardon in advance. 
Oh, let them come ! — ay, let them come ! Come they 
may : but how they go away again ” 

The Prince Alexis suddenly stopped, shook his head, 
and walked up and down the hall, muttering to himself. 
His eyes were bloodshot, and sparkled with a strange 
light. What the stewards had heard was plain enough ; 
but that something more terrible than insult was yet held in 
reserve they did not doubt. It was safe, therefore, not 
only to fulfil, but to exceed, the letter of their instruc- 
tions. Before night the whole population were acquainted 
with their duties ; and an unusual mood of expectancy, 
not unmixed with brutish glee, fell upon Kinesma. 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


59 


By the middle of the next forenoon, Boris and his 
wife, seated in the open kibitkci, drawn by post-horses, 
reached the boundaries of the estate, a few versts from 
the village. They were both silent and slightly pale at 
first, but now began to exchange mechanical remarks, to 
divert each other’s thoughts from the coming reception. 

“ Here are the fields of Kinesma at last ! ” exclaimed 
Prince Boris. “ We shall see the church and castle from 
the top of that hill in the distance. And there is Peter, 
my playmate, herding the cattle ! Peter ! Good-day, 
brotherkin ! ” 

Peter looked, saw the carriage close upon him, and, 
after a moment of hesitation, let his arms drop stiffly by 
his sides, and began howling like a mastiff by moonlight. 
Helena laughed heartily at this singular response to the 
greeting ; but Boris, after the first astonishment was over, 
looked terrified. 

“That was done by order,” said he, with a bitter 
smile. “ The old bear stretches his claws out. Dare 
you try his hug ? ” 

“ I do not fear,” she answered ; her face was calm. 

Every serf they passed obeyed the order of Prince 
Alexis according to his own idea of disrespect. One 
turned his back ; another made contemptuous grimaces 
and noises ; another sang a vulgar song ; another spat 
upon the ground or held his nostrils. Nowhere was a 
cap raised, or the stealthy welcome of a friendly glance 
given. 

The Princess Helena met these insults with a calm, 


6o 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


proud indifference. Boris felt them more keenly ; for the 
fields and hills were prospectively his property, and so 
also were the brutish peasants. It was a form of chas- 
tisement which he had never before experienced, and 
knew not how to resist. The affront of an entire com- 
munity was an offence against which he felt himself to be 
helpless. 

As they approached the town, the demonstrations of 
insolence were redoubled. About two hundred boys, be- 
tween the ages of ten and fourteen, awaited them on the 
hill below the church, forming themselves into files on 
either side of the road. These imps had been instructed 
10 stick out their tongues in derision, and howl, as the 
carriage passed between them. At the entrance of the 
long main street of Kinesma, they were obliged to pass 
under a mock triumphal arch, hung with dead dogs and 
drowned cats ; and from this point the reception assumed 
an outrageous character. Howls, hootings, and hisses 
were heard on all sides ; bouquets of nettles and vile 
weeds were flung to them ; even wreaths of spoiled fish 
dropped from the windows. The women were the most 
eager and uproarious in this carnival of insult : they beat 
their saucepans, threw pails of dirty water upon the 
horses, pelted the coachman with rotten cabbages, and 
filled the air with screeching and foul words. 

It was impossible to pass through this ordeal with in- 
difference. Boris, finding that his kindly greetings were 
thrown away, — that even his old acquaintances in the 
bazaar howled like the rest, — sat with head bowed and 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 6 1 

despair in his heart. The beautiful eyes of Helena were 
heavy with tears ; but she no longer trembled, for she 
knew the crisis was yet to come. 

As the kibitka slowly climbed the hill on its way to 
the castle-gate, Prince Alexis, who had heard and enjoyed 
the noises in the village from a balcony on the western 
tower, made his appearance on the head of the steps 
which led from the court-yard to the state apartments. 
The dreaded whip was in his hand ; his eyes seemed 
about to start from their sockets, in their wild, eager, 
hungry gaze ; the veins stood out like cords on his fore- 
head ; and his lips, twitching involuntarily, revealed the 
glare of his set teeth. A frightened hush filled the castle. 
Some of the domestics were on their knees ; others watch- 
ing, pale and breathless, from the windows : for all felt 
that a greater storm than they had ever experienced was 
about to burst. Sasha and the castle-steward had taken 
the wise precaution to summon a physician and a priest, 
provided with the utensils for extreme unction. Both of 
these persons had been smuggled in through a rear en- 
trance, and were kept concealed until their services should 
be required. 

The noise of wheels was heard outside the gate, which 
stood invitingly open. Prince Alexis clutched his whip 
with iron fingers, and unconsciously took the attitude of a 
wild beast about to spring from its ambush. Now the 
hard clatter of hoofs and the rumbling of wheels echoed 
from the archway, and the kibitka rolled into the court- 
yard. It stopped near the foot of the grand staircase. 


62 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


Boris, who sat upon the farther side, rose to alight, in 
order to hand down his wife ; but no sooner had he made 
a movement than Prince Alexis, with lifted whip and 
face flashing fire, rushed down the steps. Helena rose, 
threw back her veil, let her mantle (which Boris had 
grasped, in his' anxiety to restrain her action,) fall behind 
her, and stepped upon the pavement. 

Prince Alexis had already reached the last step, and 
but a few feet separated them. He stopped as if struck 
by lightning, — his body still retaining, in every limb, the 
impress of motion. The whip was in his uplifted fist ; 
one foot was on the pavement of the court, and the other 
upon the edge of the last step; his head was .bent 
forward, his mouth open, and his eyes fastened upon the 
Princess Helena’s face. 

She, too, stood motionless, a form of simple and per- 
fect grace, and met his gaze with soft, imploring, yet 
courageous and trustful eyes. The women who watched 
the scene from the galleries above always declared that 
an invisible saint stood beside her in that moment, and 
surrounded her with a dazzling glory. The few moments 
during which the suspense of a hundred hearts hung upon 
those encountering eyes seemed an eternity. 

Prince Alexis did not move, but he began to tremble 
from head to foot. His fingers relaxed, and the whip fell 
ringing upon the pavement. The wild fire of his eyes 
changed from wrath into an ecstasy as intense, and a 
piercing cry of mingled wonder, admiration and delight 
burst from his throat. At that cry Boris rushed forward 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


63 


and knelt at his feet. Helena, clasping her fairest hands, 
sank beside her husband, with upturned face, as if seek- 
ing the old man’s eyes, and perfect the miracle she had 
wrought. 

The sight of that sweet face, so near his own, tamed 
the last lurking ferocity of the beast. His tears burst 
forth in a shower; he lifted and embraced the Princess, 
kissing her brow, her cheeks, her chin, and her hands, 
calling her his darling daughter, his little white dove, his 
lambkin. 

“ And, father, my Boris, too ! ” said she. 

The pure liquid voice sent thrills of exquisite delight 
through his whole frame. He embraced and blessed Bo- 
ris, and then, throwing an arm around each, held them to 
his breast, and wept passionately upon their heads. By 
this time the whole castle overflowed with weeping. Tears 
fell from every window and gallery ; they hissed upon the 
hot saucepans of the cooks ; they moistened the oats in 
the manger ; they took the starch out of the ladies’ 
ruffles, and weakened the wine in the goblets of the 
guests. Insult was changed into tenderness in a moment. 
Those who had barked or stuck out their tongues at Bo- 
ris rushed up to kiss his boots ; a thousand terms of en- 
dearment were showered upon him. 

Still clasping his children to his breast, Prince Alexis 
mounted the steps with them. At the top he turned, 
cleared his throat, husky from sobbing, and shouted — 

“ A feast ! a feast for all Kinesma ! Let there be riv- 
ers of vodki, wine and hydromel ! Proclaim it everywhere 


6 4 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


that my dear son Boris and my dear daughter Helena 
have arrived, and whoever fails to welcome them to Kines- 
ma shall be punished with a hundred stripes ! Off, ye 
scoundrels, ye vagabonds, and spread the news ! ” 

It was not an hour before the whole sweep of the 
circling hills resounded with the clang of bells, the blare 
of horns, and the songs and shouts of the rejoicing multi- 
tude. The triumphal arch of unsavory animals was 
whirled into the Volga ; all signs of the recent reception 
vanished like magic ; festive fir-boughs adorned the houses, 
and the gardens and window-pots were stripped of their 
choicest flowers to make wreaths of welcome. The two 
hundred boys, not old enough to comprehend this sudden 
bouleversement of sentiment, did not immediately desist 
from sticking out their tongues : whereupon they were 
dismissed with a box on the ear. By the middle of the 
afternoon all Kinesma was eating, drinking, and singing ; 
and every song was sung, and every glass emptied in 
honor of the dear, good Prince Boris, and the dear, beau- 
tiful Princess Helena. By night all Kinesma was drunk. 


XI. 

In the castle a superb banquet was improvised. Mu- 
sic, guests, and rare dishes were brought together with 
wonderful speed, and the choicest wines of the cellar 
were drawn upon. Prince Boris, bewildered by this sud- 
den and incredible change in his fortunes, sat at his fa- 
ther’s right hand, while the Princess filled, but with much 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


65 


more beauty and dignity, the ancient place of the Prin- 
cess Martha. The golden dishes were set before her, 
and the famous family emeralds — in accordance with the 
command of Prince Alexis — gleamed among her dark 
hair and flashed around her milk-white throat. Her 
beauty was of a kind so rare in Russia that it silenced 
all question and bore down all rivalry. Every one ac- 
knowledged that so lovely a creature had never before 
been seen. “Faith, the boy has eyes! ” the old Prince 
constantly repeated, as he turned away from a new stare 
of admiration, down the table. 

The guests noticed a change in the character of the 
entertainment. The idiot, in his tow shirt, had been 
crammed to repletion in the kitchen, and was now asleep 
in the stable. Razboi, the new bear, — the successor of 
the slaughtered Mishka, — was chained up out of hearing. 
The jugglers, tumblers, and Calmucks still occupied 
their old place under the gallery, but their performances 
were of a highly decorous character. At the least sign 
of a relapse into certain old tricks, more grotesque 
than refined, the brows of Prince Alexis would grow 
dark, and a sharp glance at Sasha was sufficient to cor- 
rect the indiscretion. Every one found this natural 
enough ; for they were equally impressed with the ele- 
gance and purity of the young wife. After the healths 
had been drunk and the slumber-flag was raised over the 
castle, Boris led her into the splendid apartments of his 
mother, — now her own, — and knelt at her feet. 

“ Have I done my part, my Boris ? ” she asked. 


66 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


“ You are an angel ! ” he cried. “ It was a miracle ! 
My life was not worth a copek, and I feared for yours. If 
it will only last ! — if it will only last ! ” 

“It will” said she. “ You have taken me from pov- 
erty, and given me rank, wealth, and a proud place in the 
world : let it be my work to keep the peace which God 
has permitted me to establish between you and your 
father ! ” 

The change in the old Prince, in fact, was more radi- 
cal than any one who knew his former ways of life would 
have considered possible. He stormed and swore occa- 
sionally, flourished his whip to some purpose, and rode 
home from the chase, not outside of a brandy cask, as 
once, but with too much of its contents inside of -him : 
but these mild excesses were comparative virtues. His 
accesses of blind rage seemed to be at an end. A pow- 
erful, unaccustomed feeling of content subdued his strong 
nature, and left its impress on his voice and features. 
He joked and sang with his “ children,” but not with the 
wild recklessness of the days of reisaks and indiscriminate 
floggings. Both his exactions and his favors diminished 
in quantity. Week after week passed by, and there was 
no sign of any return to his savage courses. 

Nothing annoyed him so much as a reference to his 
former way of life, in the presence of the Princess He- 
lena. If her gentle, questioning eyes happened to rest 
on him at such times, something very like a blush rose 
into his face, and the babbler was silenced with a terri- 
bly significant look. It was enough for her to say, when 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


6/ 


he threatened an act of cruelty and injustice, “ Father, is 
that right ? ” He confusedly retracted his orders, rather 
than bear the sorrow of her face. 

The promise of another event added to his happi- 
ness : Helena would soon become a mother. As the time 
drew near he stationed guards at the distance of a verst 
around the castle, that no clattering vehicles should pass, 
no dogs bark loudly, nor any other disturbance occur 
which might agitate the Princess. The choicest sweet- 
meats and wines, flowers from Moscow and fruits from 
Astrakhan, were procured for her ; and it was a wonder 
that the midwife performed her duty, for she had the fear 
of death before her eyes. When the important day at last 
arrived the slumber-flag was instantly hoisted, and no 
mouse dared to squeak in Kinesma until the cannon an- 
nounced the advent of a new soul. 

That night Prince Alexis lay down in the corridor, out- 
side of Helena’s door : he glared fiercely at the nurse as she 
entered with the birth-posset for the young mother. No 
one else was allowed to pass, that night, nor the next. 
Four days afterwards, Sasha, having a message to the 
Princess, and supposing the old man to be asleep, at- 
tempted to step noiselessly over his body. In a twinkle 
the Prince’s teeth fastened themselves in the serfs leg, 
and held him with the tenacity of a bull-dog. Sasha 
did not dare to cry out : he stood, writhing with pain, 
until the strong jaws grew weary of their hold, and then 
crawled away to dress the bleeding wound. After that, 
no one tried to break the Prince’s guard. 


68 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


The christening was on a magnificent scale. Prince 
Paul of Kostroma was godfather, and gave the babe the 
name of Alexis. As the Prince had paid his respects to 
Helena just before the ceremony, it may be presumed 
that the name was not of his own inspiration. The father 
and mother were not allowed to be present, but they 
learned that the grandfather had comported himself through- 
out with great dignity and propriety. The Archimandrite 
Sergius obtained from the Metropolitan at Moscow a very 
, minute fragment of the true cross, which was encased in a 
hollow bead of crystal, and hung around the infant’s neck 
by a fine gold chain, as a precious amulet. 

Prince Alexis was never tired of gazing at his grandson 
and namesake. 

“ He has more of his mother than of Boris,” he would 
say. “ So much the better ! Strong dark eyes, like the 
Great Peter, — and what a goodly leg for a babe ! Ha ! 
he makes a tight little fist already, — fit to handle a whip, 
— or ” (seeing the expression of Helena’s face) — “ or a 
sword. He’ll be a proper Prince of Kinesma, my daugh- 
ter, and we owe it to you.” 

Helena smiled, and gave him a grateful glance in re- 
turn. She had had her secret fears as to the complete con- 
version of Prince Alexis ; but now she saw in this babe a 
new spell whereby he might be bound. Slight as was her 
knowledge of men, she yet guessed the tyranny of long- 
continued habits j and only her faith, powerful in propor- 
tion as it was ignorant, gave her confidence in the result 
of the difficult work she had undertaken. 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 69 

XII. 

Alas ! the proud predictions of Prince Alexis, and tne 
protection of the sacred amulet, were alike unavailing. 
The babe sickened, wasted away, and died in less than 
two months after its birth. There was great and genuine 
sorrow among the serfs of Kinesma. Each had received 
a. shining ruble of silver at the christening ; and, more- 
over, they were now beginning to appreciate the milder re- 
gime of their lord, which this blow might suddenly termin- 
ate. Sorrow, in such natures as his, exasperates instead 
of chastening : they knew him well enough to recognize 
the danger. 

At first the old man’s grief appeared to be of a stub- 
born, harmless nature. As soon as the funeral ceremonies 
were over he betook himself to his bed, and there lay for 
two days and nights, without eating a morsel of food. The 
poor Princess Helena, almost prostrated by the blow, 
mourned alone, or with Boris, in her own apartments. Her 
influence, no longer kept alive by her constant presence, 
as formerly, -began to decline. When the old Prince 
aroused somewhat from his stupor, it was not meat that 
he demanded, but drink ; and he drank to angry excess. 
Day after day the habit resumed its ancient sway, and the 
whip and the wild-beast yell returned with it. The serfs 
even began to tremble as they never had done, so long as 
his vices were simply those of a strong man ; for now a 
fiendish element seemed to be slowly creeping in. He 
became horribly profane : they shuddered when he cursed 
the venerable Metropolitan of Moscow, declaring that the 


70 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


old sinner had deliberately killed his grandson, by send- 
ing to him, instead of the true cross of the Saviour, a piece 
of the tree to which the impenitent thief was nailed. 

Boris would have spared his wife the knowledge of 
this miserable relapse, in her present sorrow, but the in- 
formation soon reached her in other ways. She saw the 
necessity of .regaining, by a powerful effort, what she had 
lost. She therefore took her accustomed place at the ta- 
ble, and resumed her inspection of household matters. 
Prince Alexis, as if determined to cast off the yoke which 
her beauty and gentleness had laid upon him, avoided 
looking at her face or speaking to her, as much as possi- 
ble : when he did so, his manner was cold and unfriendly. 
During her few days of sad retirement he had brought 
back the bear Razboi and the idiot to his table, and vod- 
ki was habitually poured out to him and his favorite serfs 
in such a measure that the nights became hideous with 
drunken tumult. 

The Princess Helena felt that her beauty no longer 
possessed the potency of its first surprise. It must now 
be a contest of nature with nature, spiritual with animal 
power. T.he struggle would be perilous, she foresaw, but 
she did not shrink ; she rather sought the earliest occasion 
to provoke it. 

That occasion came. Some slight disappointment 
brought on one of the old paroxysms of rage, and the ox-like 
bellow of Prince Alexis rang through the castle. Boris 
was absent, but Helena delayed not a moment to venture 
into his father’s presence. She found him in a hall over- 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


7 1 


looking the court-yard, with his terrible whip in his hand, 
giving orders for the brutal punishment of some scores of 
serfs. The sight of her, coming thus unexpectedly upon 
him, did not seem to produce the least effect. 

“ Father ! ” she cried, in an earnest, piteous tone, 
“ what is it you do ? ” 

“ Away, witch ! ” he yelled. “ I am the master in 
Kinesma, not thou ! Away, or- ” 

The fierceness with which he swung and cracked the 
whip was more threatening than any words. Perhaps she 
grew a shade paler, perhaps her hands were tightly clasped 
in order that they might not tremble; but she did not 
flinch from the encounter. She moved a step nearer, fixed 
her gaze upon his flashing eyes, and said, in a low, firm 
voice — 

“ It is true, father, you are master here. It is easy to 
rule over those poor, submissive slaves. But you are not 
master over yourself ; you are lashed and trampled upon 
by evil passions, and as much a slave as any of these. Be 
not weak, my father, but strong ! ” 

An expression of bewilderment came into his face. No 
such words had ever before been addressed to him, and 
he knew not how to reply to them. The Princess Helena 
followed up the effect — she was not sure that it was an ad- 
vantage — by an appeal to the simple, childish nature 
which she believed to exist under his ferocious exterior. 
For a minute it seemed as if she were about to re-establish 
her ascendancy : then the stubborn resistance of the beast 
returned. 


7 2 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


Among the portraits in the hall was one of the de- 
ceased Princess Martha. Pointing to this, Helena cried — 

“ See, my father ! here are the features of your sainted 
wife ! Think that she looks down from her place among 
the blessed, sees you, listens to your words, prays that 
your hard heart may be softened ! Remember her last 
farewell to you on earth, her hope of meeting you — ” 

A cry of savage wrath checked her. Stretching one 
huge, bony hand, as if to close her lips, trembling with 
rage and pain, livid and convulsed in every feature of his 
face, Prince Alexis reversed the whip in his right hand, 
and weighed its thick, heavy butt for one crashing, fatal 
blow. Life and death were evenly balanced. For ?n in- 
stant the Princess became deadly pale, and a sickening 
fear shot through her heart. She could not understand 
the effect of her words : her mind was paralyzed, and 
what followed came without her conscious volition. 

Not retreating a step, not removing her eyes from the 
terrible picture before her, she suddenly opened her lips 
and sang. Her voice of exquisite purity, power, and sweet- 
ness, filled the old hall and overflowed it, throbbing in 
scarcely weakened vibrations through court-yard and cas- 
tle. The melody was a prayer — the cry of a tortured 
heart for pardon and repose ; and she sang it with almost 
supernatural expression. Every sound in the castle was 
hushed : the serfs outside knelt and uncovered their 
heads. 

The Princess could never afterwards describe, or more 
than dimly recall, the exaltation of that moment. She 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


73 


sang in an inspired trance : from the utterance of the first 
note the horror of the imminent fate sank out of sight. 
Her eyes were fixed upon the convulsed face, but she be- 
held it not : all the concentrated forces of her life flowed 
into the music. She remembered, however, that Prince 
Alexis looked alternately from her face to the portrait of 
his wife ; that he at last shuddered and grew pale ; and 
that, when with the closing note her own strength suddenly 
dissolved, he groaned and fell upon the floor. 

She sat down beside him, and took his head upon her 
lap. For a long time he was silent, only shivering as if in 
fever. 

“ Father ! ” she finally whispered, “ let me take you 
away ! ” 

He sat up on the floor and looked around ; but as his 
eyes encountered the portrait, he gave a loud howl and cov- 
ered his face with his hands. 

“ She turns her head ! ” he cried. “ Take her away, — 
she follows me with her eyes ! Paint her head black, and 
cover it up ! ” 

With some difficulty he was borne to his bed, but he 
would not rest until assured that his orders had been obey- 
ed, and the painting covered for the time with a coat of 
lamp-black. A low, prolonged attack of fever followed, 
during which the presence of Helena was indispensable to 
his comfort. She ventured to leave the room only while 
he slept. He was like a child in her hands ; and when 
she commended his patience or his good resolutions, his 
face beamed with joy and gratitude. He determined ( in 
4 


74 


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 


good faith, this time) to enter a monastery and devote the 
rest of his life to pious works. 

But, even after his recovery, he was still too weak and 
dependent on his children’s attentions to carry out this res- 
olution. He banished from the castle all those of his poor 
relations who were unable to drink vodki in moderation ; 
he kept careful watch over his serfs, and those who became 
intoxicated (unless they concealed the fact in the stables 
and outhouses) were severely punished : all excess disap- 
peared, and a reign of peace and gentleness descended 
upon Kinesma. 

In another year another Alexis was born, and lived, 
and soon grew strong enough to give his grandfather » the 
greatest satisfaction he had ever known in his life, by tug- 
ging at his gray locks, and digging the small fingers into 
his tamed and merry eyes. Many years after Prince Alex- 
is was dead the serfs used to relate how they had seen 
him, in the bright summer afternoons, asleep in his arm- 
chair on the balcony, with the rosy babe asleep on his 
bosom, and the slumber-flag waving over both. 

Legends of the Prince’s hunts, reisaks , and brutal revels 
are still current along the Volga ; but they are now linked 
to fairer and more gracious stories ; and the free Russian 
farmers (no longer serfs) are never tired of relating inci- 
dents of the beauty, the courage, the benevolence, and the 
saintly piety of the Good Lady of Kinesma. 


TALES OF HOME 


the strange friend. 

T would have required an intimate famil- 
iarity with the habitual demeanor of the 
people of Londongrove to detect in them 
an access of interest (we dare not say excite- 
ment), of whatever kind. Expression with 
them was pitched to so low a key that its 
changes might be compared to the slight variations in the 
drabs and grays in which they were clothed. Yet that there 
was a moderate, decorously subdued curiosity present in 
the minds of many of them on one of the First-days of the 
Ninth-month, in the year 1815, was as clearly apparent 
to a resident of the neighborhood as are the indications 
of a fire or a riot to the member of a city mob. 

The agitations of the war which had so recently come 
to an end had hardly touched this quiet and peaceful 
community. They had stoutly “ borne their testimony,” 
and faced the question where it could not be evaded ; 
and although the dashing Philadelphia militia had been 



76 


TALES OF HOME. 


stationed at Camp Bloomfield, within four miles of them, 
the previous year, these good people simply ignored the 
fact. If their sons ever listened to the trumpets at a dis- 
tance, or stole nearer to have a peep at the uniforms, no 
report of what they had seen or heard was likely to be 
made at home. Peace brought to them a relief, like the 
awakening from an uncomfortable dream : their lives at 
once reverted to the calm which they had breathed for 
thirty years preceding the national disturbance. In their 
ways they had not materially changed for a hundred years. 
The surplus produce of their farms more than sufficed for 
the very few needs which those farms did not supply, and 
they seldom touched the world outside of their sect, ex- 
cept in matters of business. They were satisfied with 
themselves and with their lot ; they lived to a ripe and 
beautiful age, rarely “ borrowed trouble,” and were pa- 
tient to endure that which came in the fixed course of 
things. If the spirit of curiosity, the yearning for an 
active, joyous grasp of life, sometimes pierced through 
this placid temper, and stirred the blood of the adoles- 
cent members, they were persuaded by grave voices, of 
almost prophetic authority, to turn their hearts towards 
“ the Stillness and the Quietness.” 

It was the pleasant custom of the community to ar- 
rive at the meeting-house some fifteen or twenty minutes 
before the usual time of meeting, and exchange quiet and 
kindly greetings before taking their places on the plain 
benches inside. As most of the families had lived during 
the week on the solitude of their farms, they liked to see 


THE STRANGE FRIEND. 


77 


their neighbors’ faces, and resolve, as it were, their sense 
of isolation into the common atmosphere, before yielding 
to the assumed abstraction of their worship. In this pre- 
liminary meeting, also, the sexes were divided, but rather 
from habit than any prescribed rule. They were already 
in the vestibule of the sanctuary ; their voices were sub- 
dued and their manner touched with a kind of reverence. 

If the Londongrove Friends gathered together a few 
minutes earlier on that September First-day ; if the younger 
members looked more frequently towards one of the 
gates leading into the meeting-house yard than towards 
the other ; and if Abraham Bradbury was the centre of a 
larger circle of neighbors than Simon Pennock (although 
both sat side by side on the highest seat of the gallery), 
— the cause of these slight deviations from the ordinary 
behavior of the gathering was generally known. Abra- 
ham’s son had died the previous Sixth-month, leaving a 
widow incapable of taking charge of his farm on the 
Street Road, which was therefore offered for rent. It 
was not always easy to obtain a satisfactory tenant in 
those days, and Abraham was not more relieved than sur- 
prised on receiving an application from an unexpected 
quarter. A strange Friend, of stately appearance, called 
upon him, bearing a letter from William Warner, in Ad- 
ams County, together with a certificate from a Monthly 
Meeting on Long Island. After inspecting the farm and 
making close inquiries in regard to the people of the 
neighborhood, he accepted the terms of rent, and had 
now, with his family, been three or four days in possession. 


73 


TALES OF HOME. 


In this circumstance, it is true, there was nothing 
strange, and the interest of the people sprang from some 
other particulars which had transpired. The new-comer, 
Henry Donnelly by name, had offered, in place of the 
usual security, to pay the rent annually in advance ; his 
speech and manner were not, in all respects, those of 
Friends, and he acknowledged that he was of Irish birth ; 
and moreover, some who had passed the wagons bearing 
his household goods had been struck by the peculiar pat- 
terns of the furniture piled upon them. Abraham Brad- 
bury had of course been present at the arrival, and the 
Friends upon the adjoining farms had kindly given their 
assistance, although it was a busy time of the year. 
While, therefore, no one suspected that the farmer could 
possibly accept a tenant of doubtful character, a general 
sentiment of curious expectancy went forth to meet the 
Donnelly family. 

Even the venerable Simon Pennock, who lived in the 
opposite part of the township, was not wholly free from 
the prevalent feeling. “ Abraham,” he said, approaching 
his colleague, “ I suppose thee has satisfied thyself that 
the strange Friend is of good repute.” 

Abraham was assuredly satisfied of one thing — that 
the three hundred silver dollars in his antiquated secre- 
tary at home were good and lawful coin. We will not say 
that this fact disposed him to charity, but will only testify 
that he answered thus : 

“ I don’t think we have any right to question the cer- 
tificate from Islip, Simon ; and William Warner’s word 


THE STRANGE FRIEND. 


79 


(whom thee knows by hearsay) is that of a good and 
honest man. Henry himself will stand ready to satisfy 
thee, if it is needful.” 

Here he turned to greet a tall, fresh-faced youth, who 
had quietly joined the group at the men’s end of the meet- 
ing-house. He was nineteen, blue-eyed, and rosy, and a 
little embarrassed by the grave, scrutinizing, yet not un- 
friendly eyes fixed upon him. 

“ Simon, this is Henry’s oldest son, De Courcy,” said 
Abraham. 

Simon took the youth’s hand, saying, “ Where did thee 
get thy outlandish name ? ” 

The young man colored, hesitated, and then said, in a 
low, firm voice, “ It was my grandfather’s name.” 

One of the heavy carriages of the place and period, 
new and shiny, in spite of its sober colors, rolled into the 
yard. Abraham Bradbury and De Courcy Donnelly set 
forth, side by side, to meet it. Out of it descended a tall, 
broad-shouldered figure — a man in the prime of life, 
whose ripe, aggressive vitality gave his rigid Quaker garb 
the air of a military undress. His blue eyes seemed to 
laugh above the measured accents of his plain speech, and 
the close crop of his hair could not hide its tendency to 
curl. A bearing expressive of energy and the habit of 
command was not unusual in the sect, strengthening, but 
not changing, its habitual mask ; yet in Henry Donnelly 
this bearing suggested— one could scarcely explain why — 
a different experience. Dress and speech, in him, ex- 
pressed condescension rather than fraternal equality. 


8o 


TALES OF HOME. 


He carefully assisted his wife to alight, and De Courcy 
led the horse to the hitching-shed. Susan Donnelly was 
a still blooming woman of forty ; her dress, of the plainest 
color, was yet of the richest texture ; and her round, gen- 
tle, almost timid face looked forth like a girl’s from the 
shadow of her scoop bonnet. While she was greeting 
Abraham Bradbury, the two daughters, Sylvia and Alice, 
who had been standing shyly by themselves on the edge 
of the group of women, came forward. The latter was a 
model of the demure Quaker maiden ; but Abraham ex- 
perienced as much surprise as was possible to his nature 
on observing Sylvia’s costume. A light-blue dress, a 
dark-blue cloak, a hat with ribbons, and hair in curls — 
what Friend of good standing ever allowed his daughter 
thus to array herself in the fashion of the world ? 

Henry read the question in Abraham’s face, and pre- 
ferred not to answer it at that moment. Saying, “ Thee 
must make me acquainted with the rest of our brethren,” 
he led the way back to the men’s end. When he had 
been presented to the older members, it was time for 
them to assemble in meeting. 

The people were again quietly startled when Henry 
Donnelly deliberately mounted to the third and highest 
bench facing them, and sat down beside Abraham and 
Simon. These two retained, possibly with some little in- 
ward exertion, the composure of their faces, and the 
strange Friend became like unto them. His hands were 
clasped firmly in his lap ; his full, decided lips were set 
together, and his eyes gazed into vacancy from under the 


THE STRANGE FRIEND. 


8l 


broad brim. De Courcy had removed his hat on enter- 
ing the house, but, meeting his father’s eyes, replaced it 
suddenly, with a slight blush. 

When Simon Pennock and Ruth Treadwell had spoken 
the thoughts which had come to them in the stillness, the 
strange Friend arose. Slowly, with frequent pauses, as 
if waiting for the guidance of the Spirit, and with that in- 
ward voice which falls so naturally into the measure of a 
chant, he urged upon his hearers the necessity of seeking 
the Light and walking therein. He did not always em- 
ploy the customary phrases, but neither did he seem to 
speak the lower language of logic and reason ; while his 
tones were so full and mellow that they gave, with every 
slowly modulated sentence, a fresh satisfaction to the ear. 
Even his broad a’s and the strong roll of his r' s, which 
verified the rumor of his foreign birth, did not detract 
from the authority of his words. The doubts which had 
preceded him somehow melted away in his presence, and 
he came forth, after the meeting had been dissolved by 
the shaking of hands, an accepted tenant of the high 
seat. 

That evening, the family were alone in their new home. 
The plain rush-bottomed chairs and sober carpet, in con- 
trast with the dark, solid mahogany table, and the silver 
branched candle-stick which stood upon it, hinted of 
former wealth and present loss; and something of the 
same contrast was reflected in the habits of the inmates. 
While the father, seated in a stately arm-chair, read aloud 
to his wife and children, Sylvia’s eyes rested on a guitar- 


82 


TALES AROUND HOME. 


case in the corner, and her fingers absently adjusted 
themselves to the imaginary frets. De Courcy twisted 
his neck as if the straight collar of his coat were a bad 
fit, and Henry, the youngest boy, nodded drowsily from 
time to time. 

“ There, my lads and lasses ! ” said Henry Donnelly, 
as he closed the book, “ now we’re plain farmers at last, 
— and the plainer the better, since it must be. There’s 
only one thing wanting — ” 

He paused ; and Sylvia, looking up with a bright, 
arch determination, answered : “ It’s too late now, father, 
— they have seen me as one of the world’s people, as I 
meant they should. When it is once settled as some- 
thing not to be helped, it will give us no trouble.” 

“ Faith, Sylvia ! ” exclaimed De Courcy, “ I almost 
wish I had kept you company.” 

“ Don’t be impatient, my boy,” said the mother, gently. 
“ Think of the vexations we have had, and what a rest 
this life will be ! ” 

“Think, also,” the father added, “that I have the 
heaviest work to do, and that thou’lt reap the most of 
what may come of it. Don’t carry the old life to a land 
where it’s out of place. We must be what we seem to be, 
every one of us ! ” 

“ So we will ! ” said Sylvia, rising from her seat, — “ I, 
as well as the rest. It was what I said in the beginning, 
you — no, thee knows, father. Somebody must be inter- 
preter when the time comes ; somebody must remember 
while the rest of you are forgetting. Oh, I shall be talked 


THE STRANGE FRIEND. 


83 


about, and set upon, and called hard names ; it won’t be 
so easy. Stay where you are, De Courcy ; that coat will 
fit sooner than you think.” 

Her brother lifted his shoulders and made a grimace. 
“I’ve an unlucky name, it seems,” said he. “The old 
fellow — I mean Friend Simon — pronounced it outlandish. 
Couldn’t I change it to Ezra or Adonijah?” 

“ Boy, boy — ” 

“ Don’t be alarmed, father. It will soon be as Syl- 
via says ; thee’s right, and mother is right. I’ll let Syl- 
via keep my memory, and start fresh from here. We 
must into the field to-morrow, Hal and I. There’s no 
need of a collar at the plough-tail.” 

They went to rest, and on the morrow not only the 
boys, but their father were in the field. Shrewd, quick, 
and strong, they made available what they knew of farm- 
ing operations, and disguised much of their ignorance, 
while they learned. Henry Donnelly’s first public ap- 
pearance had made a strong public impression in 
his favor, which the voice of the older Friends soon 
stamped as a settled opinion. His sons did their share, 
by the amiable, yielding temper they exhibited, in ac- 
commodating themselves to the manners and ways of 
the people. The graces which came from a better educa- 
tion, and possibly, more refined associations, gave them 
an attraction, which was none the less felt because it was 
not understood, to the simple-minded young men who 
worked with the hired hands in their fathers’ fields. If 
the Donnelly family had not been accustomed, in former 


8 4 


TALES OF HOME. 


days, to sit at the same table with laborers in shirt-sleeves, 
and be addressed by the latter in fraternal phrase, no 
little awkwardnesses or hesitations betrayed the fact. 
They were anxious to make their naturalization complete, 
and it soon became so. 

The “strange Friend” was now known in London- 
grove by the familiar name of “ Henry.” He was a con- 
stant attendant at meeting, not only on First-days, but 
also on Fourth-days, and whenever he spoke his words 
were listened to with the reverence due to one who was 
truly led towards the Light. This respect kept at bay 
the curiosity that might still have lingered in some minds 
concerning his antecedent life. It was known that he 
answered Simon Pennock, who had ventured to approach 
him with a direct question, in these words : 

“Thee knows, Friend Simon, that sometimes a seal is 
put upon our mouths for a wise purpose. I have learned 
not to value the outer life except in so far as it is made 
the manifestation of the inner life, and I only date my 
own from the time when I was brought to a knowledge 
of the truth. It is not pleasant to me to look upon 
what went before ; but a season may come when it shall 
be lawful for me to declare all things — nay, when it shall 
be put upon me as a duty. Thee must suffer me to wait 
the call.” 

After this there was nothing more to be said. The 
family was on terms of quiet intimacy with the neighbors ; 
and even Sylvia, in spite of her defiant eyes and worldly 
ways, became popular among the young men and maid- 


THE STRANGE FRIEND. 


85 


ens. She touched her beloved guitar with a skill which 
seemed marvellous to the latter ; and when it was known 
that her refusal to enter the sect arose from her fondness 
for the prohibited instrument, she found many apologists 
among them. She was not set upon, and called hard 
names, as she had anticipated. It is true that her father, 
when appealed to by the elders, shook his head and said, 
“ It is a cross to us ! ” — but he had been known to re- 
main in the room while she sang “Full high in Kilbride,” 
and the keen light which arose in his eyes was neither 
that of sorrow nor anger. 

At the end of their first year of residence the farm 
presented evidences of much more orderly and intelligent 
management than at first, although the adjoining neigh- 
bors were of the opinion that the Donnellys had hardly 
made their living out of it. Friend Henry, nevertheless, 
was ready with the advance rent, and his bills were prompt- 
ly paid. He was close at a bargain, which was considered 
rather a merit than otherwise, — and almost painfully ex- 
act in observing-the strict letter of it, when made. 

As time passed by, and the family became a perma- 
nent part and parcel of the remote community, wearing 
its peaceful color and breathing its untroubled atmos- 
phere, nothing occurred to disturb the esteem and respect 
which its members enjoyed. From time to time the post- 
master at the corner delivered to Henry Donnelly a letter 
from New York, always addressed in the same hand. The 
first which arrived had an “ Esq.” added to the name, 
but this “compliment” (as the Friends termed it) soon 


86 


TALES OF HOME. 


ceased. Perhaps the official may have vaguely wondered 
whether there was any connection between the occasional 
absence of Friend Henry — not at Yearly-Meeting time — 
and these letters. If he had been a visitor at the farm- 
house he might have noticed variations in the moods of its 
inmates, which must have arisen from some other cause 
than the price of stock or the condition of the crops. 
Outside of the family circle, however, they were serenely 
reticent. 

In five or six years, when De Courcy had grown to be 
a hale, handsome man of twenty-four, 2nd as capable of 
conducting a farm as any to the township born, certain 
aberrations from the strict line of discipline began to be 
rumored. He rode a gallant horse, dressed a little more 
elegantly than his membership prescribed, and his unusu- 
ally high, straight collar took a knack of falling over. 
Moreover, he was frequently seen to ride up the Street 
Road, in the direction of Fagg’s Manor, towards those 
valleys where the brick Presbyterian church displaces the 
whitewashed Quaker meeting-house. Had Henry Don- 
nelly not occupied so high a seat, and exercised such an 
acknowledged authority in the sect, he might sooner have 
received counsel, or proffers of sympathy, as the case 
might be ; but he heard nothing until the rumors of De 
Courcy’s excursions took a more definite form. 

But one day, Abraham Bradbury, after discussing 
some Monthly-Meeting matters, suddenly asked : “ Is this 
true that I hear, Henry, — that thy son De Courcy keeps 
company with one of the Alison girls ? ” 


THE STRANGE FRIEND. 


87 


“ Who says that ? ” Henry asked, in a sharp voice. 

“ Why, it’s the common talk! Surely, thee’s heard 
of it before ? ” 

“ No ! ” 

Henry set his lips together in a manner which Abra- 
ham understood. Considering that he had fully performed 
his duty, he said no more. 

That evening, Sylvia, who had been gently thrumming 
to herself at the window, began singing “ Bonnie Peggie 
Alison.” Her father looked at De Courcy, who caught 
his glance, then lowered his eyes, and turned to leave the 
room. 

“ Stop, De Courcy,” said the former ; “ I’ve heard 
a piece of news about thee to-day, which I want thee to 
make clear.” 

“ Shall I go, father ? ” asked Sylvia. 

“No; thee may stay to give De Courcy his memory. 
I think he is beginning to need it. I’ve learned which 
way he rides on Seventh-day evenings.” 

“ Father, I am old enough to choose my way,” said 
De Courcy. 

“ But no such ways now, boy ! Has thee clean forgot- 
ten ? This was among the things upon which we agreed, 
and you all promised to keep watch and guard over your- 
selves. I had my misgivings then, but for five years I’ve 
trusted you, and now, when the time of probation is so 
nearly over — ” 

He hesitated, and De Courcy, plucking up courage, 
spoke again. With a strong effort the young man threw 


88 


TALES OF HOME. 


off the yoke of a self-taught restraint, and asserted his 
true nature. “ Has O’Neil written ? ” he asked. 

“ Not yet.” 

“Then, father,” he continued, “ I prefer the certainty 
of my present life to the uncertainty of the old. I will 
not dissolve my connection with the Friends by a shock 
which might give thee trouble ; but I will slowly work 
away from them. Notice will be taken of my ways ; there 
will be family visitations, warnings, and the usual routine 
of discipline, so that when I marry Margaret Alison, no- 
body will be surprised at my being read out of meeting. 
I shall soon be twenty-five, father; and this thing has gone 
on about as long as I can bear it. I must decide to be 
either a man or a milksop.” * 

The color rose to Henry Donnelly’s cheeks,, and his 
eyes flashed, but he showed no signs of anger. He moved 
to De Courcy’s side and laid his hand upon his shoul- 
der. 

“ Patience, my boy ! ” he said. “‘It’s the old blood, 
and I might have known it would proclaim itself. Sup- 
pose I were to shut my eyes to thy ridipgs, and thy 
merry-makings, and thy worldly company. So far I might 
go ; but the girl is no mate for thee. If O’Neil is alive, 
we are sure to hear from him soon ; and in three years, 
at the utmost, if the Lord favors us, the end will come. 
How far has it gone with thy courting ? Surely, surely, 
not too far to withdraw, at least under the plea of my pro- 
hibition ? ” 

De Courcy blushed, but firmly met his father’s eyes. 


THE STRANGE FRIEND. 89 

“ I have spoken to her,” he replied, “ and it is not the 
custom of our family to break plighted faith.” 

“ Thou art our cross, not Sylvia. Go thy ways now. 
I will endeavor to seek for guidance.” 

“ Sylvia,” said the father, when De Courcy had left 
the room, “ what is to be the end of this ? ” 

“ Unless we hear from O’Neil, father, I am afraid it 
cannot be prevented. De Courcy has been changing for 
a year past ; I am only surprised that you did not sooner 
notice it. What I said in jest has become serious truth ; 
he has already half forgotten. We might have expected, 
in the beginning, that one of two things would happen : 
either he would become a plodding Quaker farmer or take 
to his present courses. Which would be worse, when this 
life is over, — if that time ever comes ? ” 

Sylvia sighed, and there was a weariness in her voice 
which did not escape her father’s ear. He walked up and 
down the room with a troubled air. She sat down, took 
the guitar upon her lap, and began to sing the verse, com- 
mencing, “ Erin, my country, though sad and forsaken,” 
when — perhaps opportunely — Susan Donnelly entered the 
room. 

“ Eh, lass ! ” said Henry, slipping his arm around his 
wife’s waist, “ art thou tired yet ? Have I been trying 
thy patience, as I have that of the children ? Have there 
been longings kept from me, little rebellions crushed, bat- 
tles fought that I supposed were over ? ” 

“ Not by me, Henry,” was her cheerful answer. “ I 
have never have been happier than in these quiet ways 


90 


TALES OF HOME. 


with thee. I’ve been thinking, what if something has hap- 
pened, and the letters cease to come ? And it has seem- 
ed to me — now that the boys are as good farmers as any, 
and Alice is such a tidy housekeeper — that we could man- 
age very well without help. Only for thy sake, Henry : 
I fear it would be a terrible disappointment to thee. Or 
is thee as accustomed to the high seat as I to my place on 
the women’s side ? ” 

“ No ! ” he answered emphatically. “ The talk with 
De Courcy has set my quiet Quaker blood in motion. The 
boy is more than half right ; I am sure Sylvia thinks so 
too. What could I expect ? He has no birthright, and 
didn’t begin his task, as I did, after the bravery of youth 
was over. It took six generations to establish the seren- 
ity and content of our brethren here, and the dress we 
wear don’t give us the nature. De Courcy is tired of the 
masquerade, and Sylvia is tired of seeing it. Thou, my 
little Susan, who wert so timid at first, puttest us all to 
shame now ! ” 

“ I think I was meant for it, — Alice, and Henry, and 
I,” said she. 

No outward change in Henry Donnelly’s demeanor be- 
trayed this or any other disturbance at home. There 
were repeated consultations between the father and son, 
but they led to no satisfactory conclusion. De Courcy 
was sincerely attached to the pretty Presbyterian maiden, 
and found livelier society in her brothers and cousins than 
among the grave, awkward Quaker youths of London- 
grove. With the occasional freedom from restraint there 


THE STRANGE FRIEND. 


91 


awoke in him a desire for independence — a thirst for the 
suppressed license of youth. His new acquaintances 
were accustomed to a rigid domestic regime . , but of a dif- 
ferent character, and they met on a common ground of re- 
bellion. Their aberrations, it is true, were not of a very 
formidable character, and need not have been guarded but 
for the severe conventionalities of both sects. An occa- 
sional fox-chase, horse-race, or a “ stag party ” at some 
outlying tavern, formed the sum of their dissipation ; they 
sang, danced reels, and sometimes ran into little excesses 
through the stimulating sense of the trespass they were 
committing. 

By and by reports of certain of these performances 
were brought to the notice of the Londongrove Friends, 
and, with the consent of Henry Donnelly himself, De Cour- 
cy received a visit of warning and remonstrance. He had 
foreseen the probability of such a visit and was prepared. 
He denied none of* the charges brought against him, and 
accepted the grave counsel offered, simply stating that 
his nature was not yet purified and chastened ; he was 
aware he was not walking in the Light ; he believed it to 
be a troubled season through which he must needs pass 
His frankness, as he was shrewd enough to guess, was a 
scource of perplexity to the elders ; it prevented them 
from excommunicating him without further probation, 
while it left him free to indulge in further recreations. 

Some months passed away, and the absence from 
which Henry Donnelly always returned with a good sup- 
ply of ready money did not take place. The knowledge of 


92 


TALES OF HOME. 


farming which his sons had acquired now came into play. 
It was necessary to exercise both skill and thrift in order 
to keep up the liberal footing upon which the family had 
lived ; for each member of it was too proud to allow the 
community to suspect the change in their circumstances. 
De Courcy, retained more than ever at home, and bound 
to steady labor, was man enough to subdue his impatient 
spirit for the time ; but he secretly determined that with 
the first change for the better he would follow the fate he 
had chosen for himself. 

Late in the fall came the opportunity for which he had 
longed. One evening he brought home a letter, in the 
well-known handwriting. His father opened and read it 
in silence. 

“ Well, father ? ” he said. 

“ A former letter was lost, it seems. This should have 
come in the spring ; it is only the missing sum.” 

“ Does O’Neil fix any time ? ” 

“ No ; but he hopes to make a better report next year.” 

“ Then, father,” said De Courcy, “ it is useless for me 
to wait longer ; I am satisfied as it is. I should not have 
given up Margaret in any case ; but now, since thee can 
live with Henry’s help, I shall claim her.” 

“ Must it be, De Courcy ? ” 

“ It must.” 

But it was not to be. A day or two afterwards the 
young man, on his mettled horse, set off up the Street 
Road, feeling at last that the fortune and the freedom of 
his life were approaching. He had become, in habits and 


THE STRANGE FRIEND. 


93 


in feelings, one of the people, and the relinquishment of 
the hope in which his father still indulged brought him a 
firmer courage, a more settled content. His sweetheart’s 
family was in good circumstances ; but, had she been poor, 
he felt confident of his power to make and secure for her 
a farmer’s home. To the past — whatever it might have 
been — he said farewell, and went carolling some cheerful 
ditty, to look upon the face of his future. 

That night a country wagon slowly drove up to Henry 
Donnelly’s door. The three men who accompanied it 
hesitated before they knocked, and, when the door was 
opened, looked at each other with pale, sad faces, before 
either spoke. No cries followed the few words that were 
said, but silently, swiftly, a room was made ready, while 
the men lifted from the straw and carried up stairs an un- 
conscious figure, the arms of which hung down with a hor- 
rible significance as they moved. He was not dead, for 
the heart beat feebly and slowly ; but all efforts to restore 
his consciousness were in vain. There was concussion 
of the brain the physician said. He had been thrown 
from his horse, probably alighting upon his head, as there 
were neither fractures nor external wounds. All that 
night and next day the tenderest, the most unwearied care 
was exerted to call back the flickering gleam of life. The 
shock had been too great ; his deadly torpor deepened 
into death. 

In their time of trial and sorrow the family received 
the fullest sympathy, the kindliest help, from the whole 
neighborhood. They had never before so fully apprecia- 


94 


TALES OF HOME. 


ted the fraternal character of the society whereof they 
were members. The plain, plodding people living on the 
adjoining farms became virtually their relatives and fellow- 
mourners. All the external offices demanded by the sad 
occasion were performed for them, and other eyes than 
their own shed tears of honest grief over De Courcy’s cof- 
fin. All came to the funeral, and even Simon Pennock, 
in the plain yet touching words which he spoke beside the 
grave, forgot the young man’s wandering from the Light, 
in the recollection of his frank, generous, truthful nature. 

If the Donnellys had sometimes found the practical 
equality of life in Londongrove a little repellent they 
were now gratefully moved by the delicate and refined 
ways in which the sympathy of the people sought to ex- 
press itself. The better, qualities of human nature always 
develop a temporary good-breeding. Wherever any of the 
family went, they saw the reflection of their own sorrow ; 
and a new spirit informed to their eyes the quiet pastoral 
landscapes. 

In their life at home there was little change. Abra- 
ham Bradbury had insisted on sending his favorite grand- 
son, Joel, a youth of twenty-two, to take De Courcy’s 
place for a few months. He was a shy, quiet creature, with 
large brown eyes like a fawn’s, and young Henry Donnelly 
and he became friends at once. It was believed that 
he would inherit the farm at his grandfather’s death ; but 
he was as subservient to Friend Donnelly’s wishes in re- 
gard to the farming operations as if the latter held the fee 
of the property. His coming did not fill the terrible gap 


THE STRANGE FRIEND. 95 

which De Courcy’s death had made, but seemed to make 
it less constantly and painfully evident. 

Susan Donnelly soon remarked a change, which she 
could neither clearly define nor explain to herself, both in 
her husband and in their daughter Sylvia. The former, 
although in public he preserved the same grave, stately 
face, — its lines, perhaps, a little more deeply marked, — * 
seemed to be devoured by an internal unrest. His dreams 
were of the old times : words and names long unused 
came from his lips as he slept by her side. Although he 
bore his grief with more strength than she had hoped, he 
grew nervous and excitable, — sometimes unreasonably pet- 
ulant, sometimes gay to a pitch which impressed her with 
pain. When the spring came around, and the mysterious 
correspondence again failed, as in . the previous year, his 
uneasiness increased. He took his place on the high seat 
on First-dafys, as uspal, but spoke no more. 

Sylvia, on the other hand, seemed to have wholly lost 
her proud, impatient character. She went to meeting much 
more frequently than formerly, busied herself more actively 
about household matters, and ceased to speak of the un- 
certain contingency which had been so constantly present 
in her thoughts. In fact, she and her father had changed 
places. She was now the one who preached patience, who 
held before them all the bright side of their lot, who 
brought Margaret Alison to the house and justified her 
dead brother’s heart to his father’s, and who repeated to 
the latter, in his restless moods, “ De Courcy foresaw the 
truth, and we must all in the end decide as he did.” 


9<5 


TALES OF HOME. 


“ Can thee do it, Sylvia ? ” her father would ask. 

“ I believe I have done it already,” she said. “ If it 
seems difficult, pray consider how much later I begin my 
work. I have had all your memories in charge, and now I 
must not only forget for myself, but for you as well.” 

Indeed, as the spring and summer months came and 
went, Sylvia evidently grew stronger in her determination. 
The fret of her idle force was allayed, and her content in- 
creased as she saw and performed the possible duties of 
her life. Perhaps her father might have caught something 
of her spirit, but for his anxiety in regard to the suspended 
correspondence. He wearied himself in guesses, which 
all ended in the simple fact that, to escape embarrass- 
ment, the rent must again be saved from the earnings of 
the farm. 

The harvests that year were bountiful ; wheat, barley ? 
and oats stood thick and heavy in the fields. No one 
showed more careful thrift or more cheerful industry than 
young Joel Bradbury, and the family felt that much of the 
fortune of their harvest was owing to him. 

On the first day after the crops had been securely 
housed, all went to meeting, except Sylvia. In the walled 
graveyard the sod was already green over De Courcy’s 
unmarked mound, but Alice had planted a little rose-tree 
at the head, and she and her mother always visited the 
spot before taking their seats on the women’s side. The 
meeting-house was very full that day, as the busy season 
of the summer was over, and the horses of those who lived 
at a distance had no longer such need of rest. 


THE STRANGE FRIEND. 


9 7 


It was a sultry forenoon, and the windows and doors 
of the building were open. The humming of insects was 
heard in the silence, and broken lights and shadows of the 
poplar-leaves were sprinkled upon the steps and sills. 
Outside there were glimpses of quiet groves and orchards, 
and blue fragments of sky, — no more semblance of life in 
the external landscape than there was in the silent meet- 
ing within. Some quarter of an hour before the shaking 
of hands took place, the hoofs of a horse were heard in 
the meeting-house yard — the noise of a smart trot on the 
turf, suddenly arrested. 

The boys pricked up their ears at this unusual sound, 
and stole glances at each other when they imagined them- 
selves unseen by the awful faces in the gallery. Presently 
those nearest the door saw a broader shadow fall over 
those flickering upon the stone. A red face appeared for 
a moment, and was, then drawn back out of sight. The 
shadow advanced and receded, in a state of peculiar rest- 
lessness. Sometimes the end of a riding-whip was visi- 
ble, sometimes the corner of a coarse gray coat. The boys 
who noticed these apparitions were burning with impa- 
tience, but they dared not leave their seats until Abraham 
Bradbury had reached his hand to Henry Donnelly. 

Then they rushed out. The mysterious personage was 
still beside the door, leaning against the wall. He was a 
short, thick-set man of fifty, with red hair, round gray 
eyes, a broad pug nose, and projecting mouth. He wore 
a heavy gray coat, despite the heat, and a waistcoat with 
many brass buttons ; also corduroy breeches and riding 
5 


9 8 


TALES OF HOME. 


boots. When they appeared, he started forward with open 
mouth and eyes, and stared wildly in their faces. They 
gathered around the poplar-trunks, and waited with some 
uneasiness to see what would follow. 

Slowly and gravely, with the half-broken ban of silence 
still hanging over them, the people issued from the house. 
The strange man stood, leaning forward, and seemed to 
devour each, in turn, with his eager eyes. After the young 
men came the fathers of families, and lastly the old men 
from the gallery seats. Last of these came Henry Don- 
nelly. In the meantime, aH had seen and wondered at 
the waiting figure ; its attitude was too .intense and self- 
forgetting to be misinterpreted. The greetings and re- 
marks were suspended until the people had seen for whom 
the man waited, and why. 

Henry Donnelly had no sooner set his foot upon the 
door-step than, with something between a shout and a 
howl, the stranger darted forward, seized his hand, and 
fell upon one knee, crying : “Omy lord ! my lord ! Glory 
be to God that I’ve found ye at last ! ” 

If these words burst like a bomb on the ears of the 
people, what was their consternation when Henry Don- 
nelly exclaimed, “ The Divel ! Jack O’Neil, can that be 
you?” 

“ It’s me, meself, my lord ! When we heard the letters 
went wrong last year, I said ‘ I’ll trust no such good news 
to their blasted mail-posts: I’ll go meself and carry it to 
his lordship, — if it is t’other side o’ the say. Him and 
my lady and all the chi Idren went, and sure I can go too 


THE STRANGE FRIEND. 


99 


And as I was the one that went with you from Dunleigh 
Castle, I’ll go back with you to that same, for it stands 
awaitin’, and blessed be the day that sees you back in 
your ould place ! ’* 

“ All clear, Jack ? All mine again ? ” 

“You may believe it, my lord! And money in the 
chest beside. But where’s my lady, bless her sweet face ! 
Among yon women, belike, and you’ll help me to find her, 
for it’s herself must have the news next, and then the 
young master — ” 

With that word Henry Donnelly awoke to a sense of 
time and place. He found himself within a ring of star- 
ing, wondering, scandalized eyes. He met them boldly, 
with a proud, though rather grim smile, took hold of 
O’Neil’s arm and led him towards the women’s end of the 
house, where the sight of Susan in her scoop bonnet so 
moved the servant’s heart that he melted into tears. Both 
husband and wife were eager to get home and hear 
O’Neil’s news in private ; so they set out at once in their 
plain carriage, followed by the latter on horseback. As for 
the Friends, they went home in a state of bewilderment. 

Alice Donnelly, with her brother Henry and Joel 
Bradbury, returned on foot. The two former remembered 
O’Neil, and, although they had not witnessed his first in- 
terview with their father, they knew enough of the family 
history to surmise his errand. Joel was silent and troub- 
led. 

“ Alice, I hope it doesn’t mean that we are going back, 
don’t you ? ” said Henry. 


IOO 


TALES OF HOME. 


“Yes,” she answered, and said no more. 

They took a foot-path across the fields, and reached 
the farm-house at the same time with the first party. As 
they opened the door Sylvia descended the staircase dress- 
ed in a rich shimmering brocade, with a necklace of ame- 
thysts around her throat. To their eyes, so long accus- 
tomed to the absence of positive color, she was completely 
dazzling. There was a new color on her cheeks, and 
her eyes seemed larger and brighter. She made a stately 
courtesy, and held open the parlor door. 

“Welcome, Lord Henry Dunleigh, of Dunleigh Cas- 
tle ! ” she cried ; “ welcome, Lady Dunleigh ! ” 

Her father kissed her on the forehead. “ Now give us 
back our memories, Sylvia ! ” he said, exultingly. 

Susan Donnelly sank into a chair, overcome by the 
mixed emotions of the moment. 

“Come in, my faithful Jack! Unpack thy portman- 
teau of news, for I see thou art bursting to show it ; let 
us have every thing from the beginning. Wife, it’s a little 
too much for thee, coming so unexpectedly. Set out the 
wine, Alice ! ” 

The decanter was placed upon the table. O’Neil fill- 
ed a tumbler to the brim, lifted it high, made two or three 
hoarse efforts to speak, and then walked away to the win- 
dow, where he drank in silence. This little incident touch- 
ed the family more than the announcement of their good 
fortune. Henry Donnelly’s feverish exultation subsided : 
he sat down with a grave, thoughtful face, while his wife 
wept quietly beside him. Sylvia stood waiting with an 


THE STRANGE FRIEND. 


IOI 


abstracted air ; Alice removed her mother’s bonnet and 
shawl ; and Henry and Joel, seated together at the farther 
end of the room, looked on in silent anticipation. 

O’Neil’s story was long, and frequently interrupted. 
He had been Lord Dunleigh’s steward in better days, as 
his father had been to the old lord, and was bound to the 
family by the closest ties of interest and affection. When 
the estates became so encumbered that either an immedi- 
ate change or a catastrophe was inevitable, he had been 
taken into his master’s confidence concerning the plan 
which had first been proposed in jest, and afterwards 
adopted in earnest. The family must leave Dunleigh Cas- 
tle for a period of probably eight or ten years, and seek 
some part of the world where their expenses could be re- 
duced to the lowest possible figure. In Germany or Italy 
there would be the annoyance of a foreign race and lan- 
guage, of meeting of tourists belonging to the circle in 
which they had moved, a dangerous idleness for their sons, 
and embarrassing restrictions for their daughters. On 
the other hand, the suggestion to emigrate to America 
and become Quakers during their exile offered more ad- 
vantages the more they considered it. It was original in 
character ; it offered them economy, seclusion, entire lib- 
erty of action inside the limits of the sect, the best moral 
atmosphere for their children, and an occupation which 
would not deteriorate what was best in their blood and 
breeding. 

How Lord Dunleigh obtained admission into the sect 
as plain Henry Donnelly is a matter of conjecture with 


102 


TALES OF HOME. 


the Londongrove Friends. The deception which had 
been practised upon them — although it was perhaps less 
complete than they imagined — left a soreness of feeling 
behind it. The matter was hushed up after the departure 
of the family, and one might now live for years in the 
neighborhood without hearing the story. How the shrewd 
plan was carried out by Lord Dunleigh and his family, 
we have already learned. O’Neil, left on the estate, in 
the north of Ireland, did his part with equal fidelity. He 
not only filled up the gaps made by his master’s early 
profuseness, but found means to move the sympathies of 
a cousin of the latter — a rich, eccentric old bachelor, 
who had long been estranged by a family quarrel. To 
this cousin he finally confided the character of the exile, 
and at a lucky time ; for the cousin’s will was altered in 
Lord Dunleigh’s favor, and he died before his mood of 
reconciliation passed away. Now, the estate was not only 
unencumbered, but there was a handsome surplus in the 
hands of the Dublin bankers. The family might return 
whenever they chose, and there would be a festival to wel- 
come them, O’Neil said, such as Dunleigh Castle had 
never known since its foundations were laid. 

“ Let us go at once ! ” said Sylvia, when he had con- 
cluded his tale. “No more masquerading, — I never 
knew until to-day how much I have hated it ! I will not 
say that your plan was not a sensible one, father • but I 
wish it might have been carried out with more honor to 
ourselves. Since De Courcy’s death I have begun to ap- 
preciate our neighbors : I was resigned to become one of 


THE STRANGE FRIEND. 


103 


these people had our luck gone the other way. Will 
they give us any credit for goodness and truth, I wonder ? 
Yes, in mother’s case, and Alice’s ; and I believe both of 
them would give up Dunleigh Castle for this little farm.” 

“ Then,” her father exclaimed, “ it is time that we 
should return, and without delay. But thee wrongs us 
somewhat, Sylvia : it has not all been masquerading. We 
have become the servants, rather than the masters, of our 
own parts, and shall live a painful and divided life until 
we get back in our old place. I fear me it will always be 
divided for thee, wife, and Alice and Henry. If I am 
subdued by the element which I only meant to asssume, 
how much more deeply must it have wrought in your na- 
tures ! Yes, Sylvia is right, we must get away at once. 
To-morrow we must leave Londongrove forever ! ” 

He had scarcely spoken, when a new surprise fell 
upon the family. Joel Bradbury arose and walked for- 
ward, as if thrust by an emotion so powerful that it trans- 
formed his whole being. He seemed to forget every 
thing but Alice Donnelly’s presence. His soft brown 
eyes were fixed on her face with an expression of unutter- 
able tenderness and longing. He caught her by the 
hands. “ Alice, O, Alice ! ” burst from his lips; “you 
are not going to leave me ? ” 

The flush in the girl’s sweet face faded into a deadly 
paleness. A moan came from her lips ; her head drop- 
ped, and she would have fallen, swooning, from the chair 
had not Joel knelt at her feet and caught her upon his 
breast. 


104 


TALES OF HOME. 


For a moment there was silence in the room. 

Presently, Sylvia, all her haughtiness gone, knelt be- 
side the young man, and took her sister from his arms. 
“Joel, my poor, dear friend,” she said, “I am sorry that 
the last, worst mischief we have done must fall upon you.” 

Joel covered his face with his hands, and convulsively 
uttered the words, “ Must, she go ? ” 

Then Henry Donnelly — or, rather, Lord Dunleigh, as 
we must now call him — took the young man’s hand. He 
was profoundly moved ; his strong voice trembled, and 
his words came slowly. “ I will not appeal to thy heart, 
Joel,” he said, “for it would not hear me now. But thou 
hast heard all our story, and knowest that we must leave 
these parts, never to return. We belong to another station 
and another mode of life than yours, and it must come to 
us as a good fortune that our time of probation is at an end. 
Bethink thee, could we leave our darling Alice behind us, 
parted as if by the grave? Nay, could we rob her of the 
life to which she is born — of her share in our lives ? On 
the other hand, could we take thee with us into relations 
where thee would always be a stranger, and in which a 
nature like thine has no place ? This is a case where 
duty speaks clearly, though so hard, so very hard, to 
follow.” 

He spoke tenderly, but inflexibly, and Joel felt that 
his fate was pronounced. When Alice had somewhat 
revi\»ed, and was taken to another room, he stumbled 
blindly out of the house, made his way to the barn, and 
there flung himself upon the harvest-sheaves which, three 


THE STRANGE FRIEND. 105 

days before, he had bound with such a timid, delicious 
hope working in his arm. 

The day which brought such great fortune had thus a 
sad and troubled termination. It was proposed that the 
family should start for Philadelphia on the morrow, leav- 
ing O’Neil to pack up and remove such furniture as they 
wished to retain ; but Susan, Lady Dunleigh, could not 
forsake the neighborhood without a parting visit to the 
good friends who had mourned with her over her first- 
born; and Sylvia was with her in this wish. So two 
more days elapsed, and then the Dunleighs passed down 
the Street Road, and the plain farm-house was gone from 
their eyes forever. Two grieved over the loss of their 
happy home; one was almost broken-hearted; and the 
remaining two felt that the trouble of the present clouded 
all their happiness in the return to rank and fortune. 

They went, and Ihey never came again. An account 
of the great festival at Dunleigh Castle reached London- 
grove two years later, through an Irish laborer, who 
brought to Joel Bradbury a letter of recommendation 
signed “Dunleigh.” Joel kept the man upon his farm, 
and the two preserved the memory of the family long 
after the neighborhood had ceased to speak of it. Joel 
never married ; he still lives in the house where the great 
sorrow of his life befell. His head is gray, and his face 
deeply wrinkled ; but when he lifts the shy lids of his 
soft brown eyes, I fancy I can see in their tremulous 
depths the lingering memory of his love for Alice Dun- 
leigh. 

5 * 









JACOB FLINT’S JOURNEY. 


F there ever was a man crushed out of 
all courage, all self-reliance, all comfort 
in life, it was Jacob Flint. Why this 
should have been, neither he nor any 
one else could have explained ; but so 
it was. On the day that he first went 
to school, his shy, frightened face marked him as fair 
game for the rougher and stronger boys, and they sub- 
jected him to all those exquisite refinements of torture 
which boys seem to get by the direct inspiration of the 
Devil. There was no form of their bullying meanness or 
the cowardice of their brutal strength which he did not 
experience. He was born under a fading or falling star, 
— the inheritor of some anxious or unhappy mood of his 
parents, which gave its fast color to the threads out of 
which his innocent being was woven. 

Even the good people of the neighborhood, never ac- 
customed to look below the externals of appearance and 
manner, saw in his shrinking face and awkward motions 
only the signs of a cringing, abject soul. “ You’ll be no 



108 TALES OF HOME. 

more of a man than Jake Flint ! ” was the reproach which 
many a farmer addressed to his dilatory boy ; and thus 
the parents, one and all, came to repeat the sins of the 
children. 

If, therefore, at school and “before folks,” Jacob’s 
position was always uncomfortable and depressing, it was 
little more cheering at home. His parents, as all the 
neighbors believed, had been unhappily married, and, 
though the mother died in his early childhood, his father 
remained a mbody, unsocial man, who rarely left his farm 
except on the ist of April every year, when he went to 
the county town for the purpose of paying the interest 
upon a mortgage. The farm lay in a hollow between two 
hills, separated from the road by a thick wood, and the 
chimneys of the lonely old house looked in vain for a 
neighbor-smoke when they began to grow warm of a 
morning. 

Beyond the barn and under the northern hill there 
was a log tenant-house, in which dwelt a negro couple, 
who, in the course of years had become fixtures on the 
place and almost partners in it. Harry, the man, was the 
medium by which Samuel Flint kept up his necessary in- 
tercourse with the world beyond the valley ; he took the 
horses to the blacksmith, the grain to the mill, the turkeys 
to market, and through his hands passed all the incomings 
and outgoings of the farm, except the annual interest on 
the mortgage. Sally, his wife, took care of the household, 
which, indeed, was a light and comfortable task, since 
the table was well supplied for her own sake, and there was 


JACOB FLINT’S JOURNEY. 109 

no sharp eye to criticise her sweeping, dusting, and bed- 
making. The place had a forlorn, tumble-down aspect, 
quite in keeping with its lonely situation ; but perhaps 
this very circumstance flattered the mood of its silent, 
melancholy owner and his unhappy son. 

In all the neighborhood there was but one person 
with whom Jacob felt completely at ease — but one who 
never joined in the general habit of making his name 
the butt of ridicule or contempt. This was Mrs. Ann 
Pardon, the hearty, active wife of Farmer Robert Pardon, 
who lived nearly a mile farther down the brook. Jacob 
had won her good-will by some neighborly services, some- 
thing so trifling, indeed, that the thought of a favor con- 
ferred never entered his mind. Ann Pardon saw that it 
did not ; she detected a streak of most unconscious good- 
ness under his uncouth, embarrassed ways, and she deter- 
mined to cultivate dt. No little tact was required, how- 
ever, to coax the wild, forlorn creature into so much confi- 
dence as she desired to establish ; but tact is a native qual- 
ity of the heart no less than a social acquirement, and so she 
did the very thing necessary without thinking much about it. 

Robert Pardon discovered by and by that Jacob was a 
steady, faithful hand in the harvest-field at husking-time, 
or whenever any extra labor was required, and Jacob’s 
father made no objection to his earning a penny in this 
way ; and so he fell into the habit of spending his Satur- 
day evenings at the Pardon farm-house, at first to talk over 
matters of work, and finally because it had become a wel- 
come relief from his dreary life at home. 


1 10 


TALES OF HOME. 


Now it happened that on a Saturday in the beginning 
of haying-time, the village tailor sent home by Harry a 
new suit of light summer clothes, for which Jacob had 
been measured a month before. After supper he tried 
them on, the day’s work being over, and Sally’s admir- 
ation was so loud and emphatic that he felt himself grow- 
ing red even to the small of his back. 

“ Now, don’t go for to take ’em off, Mr. Jake,” said 
she. “ I spec’ you’re gwine down to Pardon’s, and so you 
jist keep ’em on to show ’em all how nice you kin look.” 

The same thought had already entered Jacob’s mind. 
Poor fellow ! It was the highest form of pleasure of which 
he had ever allowed himself to conceive. If he had been 
called upon to pass through the village on first assuming 
the new clothes, every stitch would have pricked him as 
if the needle remained in it ; but a quiet walk down the 
brookside, by the pleasant path through the thickets and 
over the fragrant meadows, with a consciousness of his 
own neatness and freshness at every step, and with kind 
Ann Pardon’s commendation at the close, and the flat- 
tering curiosity of the children, — the only ones who never 
made fun of him, — all that was a delightful prospect. He 
could never, never forget himself, as he had seen other 
young fellows do ; but to remember himself agreeably was 
certainly the next best thing. 

Jacob was already a well-grown man of twenty -three, 
and would have made a good enough appearance but for 
the stoop in his shoulders, and the drooping, uneasy way 
in which he carried his head. Many a time when he was 


JACOB FLINT’S JOURNEY. 


Ill 


alone in the fields or woods he had straightened himself, 
and looked courageously at the buts of the oak-trees or in 
the very eyes of the indifferent oxen ; but, when a human 
face drew near, some spring in his neck seemed to snap, 
some buckle around his shoulders to be drawn three holes 
tighter, and he found himself in the old posture. The 
ever-present thought of this weakness was the only drop 
of bitterness in his cup, as he followed the lonely path 
through the thickets. 

Some spirit in the sweet, delicious freshness of the 
air, some voice in the mellow babble of the stream, leap- 
ing in and out of sight between the alders, some smile of 
light, lingering on the rising corn-fields beyond the mead- 
ow and the melting purple of a distant hill, reached to 
the seclusion of his heart. He was soothed and cheered ; 
his head lifted itself in the presentiment of a future less 
lonely than the past ; and the everlasting trouble vanished 
from his eyes. 

Suddenly, at a turn of the path, two mowers from the 
meadow, with their scythes upon their shoulders, came 
upon him. He had not heard their feet on the deep turf. 
His chest relaxed, and his head began to sink ; then, with 
the most desperate effort in his life, he lifted it again, and, 
darting a rapid side glance at the men, hastened by. 
They could not understand the mixed defiance and sup- 
plication of his face ; to them he only looked “ queer.” 

“ Been committin’ a murder, have you ? ” asked one 
of them, grinning. 

“ Startin’ off on his journey, I guess,” said the other. 


I 12 


TALES OF HOME. 


The next instant they were gone, and Jacob, with set 
teeth and clinched hands, smothered something that 
would have been a howl if he had given it voice. Sharp 
lines of pain were marked on his face, and, for the first 
time, the idea of resistance took fierce and bitter posses- 
sion of his heart. But the mood was too unusual to last ; 
presently he shook his head, and walked on towards Par- 
don’s farm-hou-se. 

Ann wore a smart gingham dress, and her first excla- 
mation was: “Why, Jake! how nice you look. And so 
you know 'all about it, too ? ” 

“ About what ? ” 

“ I see you don’t,” said she. “ I was too fast ; but it 
makes no difference. I know you are willing to lend me 
a helping hand.” 

“Oh, to be sure,” Jacob answered. 

“ And not mind a little company ? ” 

Jacob’s face suddenly clouded; but he said, though 
with an effort : “ No — not much — if I can be of any 
help.” 

“ It’s rather a joke, after all,” Ann Pardon continued, 
speaking rapidly ; “ they meant a surprise, a few of the 
young people ; but* sister Becky found a way to send me 
word, or I might have been caught like Meribah Johnson 
last week, in the middle of my work ; eight or ten, she 
said, but more may drop in : and it’s moonlight and warm, 
so they’ll be mostly under the trees ; and Robert won’t 
be home till late, and I do want help in carrying chairs, 
and getting up some ice, and handing around ; and, 


JACOB FLINT’S JOURNEY. 1 1 3 

though I know you don’t care for merry-makings, you can 
help me out, you see — ” 

Here she paused. Jacob looked perplexed, but said 
nothing. 

“ Becky will help what she can, and while I’m in the 
kitchen she’ll have an eye to things outside,” she said. 

Jacob’s head was down again, and, moreover, turned 
on one side, but his ear betrayed the mounting blood. 
Finally he answered, in a quick, husky voice : “ Well, I’ll 
do what I can. What’s first ? ” 

Thereupon he began to carry some benches from 
the veranda to a grassy bank beside the sycamore-tree. 
Ann Pardon wisely said no more of the coming surprise- 
party, but kept him so employed that, as the visitors ar- 
rived by twos and threes, the merriment was in full play 
almost before he was aware of it. Moreover, the night 
was a protecting presence : the moonlight poured splen- 
didly upon the open turf beyond the sycamore, but every 
lilac-bush or trellis of woodbine made a nook of shade, 
wherein he could pause a moment and take courage for 
his duties. Becky Morton, Ann Pardon’s youngest sis- 
ter, frightened him a little every time she came to con- 
sult about the arrangement of seats or the distribution of 
refreshments ; but it was a delightful, fascinating fear, 
such as he had never felt before in his life. He knew 
Becky, but he had never seen her in white and pink, with 
floating tresses, until now. In fact, he had hardly looked 
at her fairly, but now, as she glided into the moonlight 
and he paused in the shadow, his eyes took note of her 


TALES OF HOME. 


1 14 

exceeding beauty. Some sweet, confusing influence, he 
knew not what, passed into his blood. 

The young men had brought a fiddler from the vil- 
lage, and it was not long before most of the company were 
treading the measures of reels or cotillons on the grass. 
How merry and happy they all were ! How freely and 
unembarrassedly they moved and talked ! By and by all 
became involved in the dance, and Jacob, left alone and 
unnoticed, drew nearer and nearer to the gay and beauti- 
ful life from which he was expelled. 

With a long-drawn scream of the fiddle the dance 
came to an end, and the dancers, laughing, chattering, 
panting, and fanning themselves, broke into groups and 
scattered over the enclosure before the house. Jacob was 
surrounded before he could escape. Becky, with two 
lively girls in her wake, came up to him and said : “ Oh 
Mr. Flint, why don’t you dance ? ” 

If he had stopped to consider, he would no doubt 
have replied very differently. But a hundred questions, 
stirred by what he had seen, were clamoring for light, and 
they threw the desperate impulse to his lips. 

“ If I could dance, would you dance with me ? ” 

The two lively girls heard the words, and looked at 
Becky with roguish faces. 

“ Oh yes, take him for your next partner ! ” cried one. 

“ I will,” said Becky, “ after he comes back from his 
journey.” 

Then all three laughed. Jacob leaned against the 
tree, his eyes fixed on the ground. 


JACOB FLINT’S JOURNEV. 


115 


“ Is it a bargain ? ” asked one of the girls. 

“ No,” said he, and walked rapidly away. 

He went to the house, and, finding that Robert had 
arrived, took his hat, and left by the rear door. There 
was a grassy alley between the orchard and garden, from 
which it was divided by a high hawthorn hedge. He had 
scarcely taken three paces on his way to the meadow, 
when the sound of the voice he had last heard, on the 
other side of the hedge, arrested his feet. 

“Becky, I think you rather hurt Jake Flint,” said the 
girl. 

“ Hardly,” answered Becky ; “ he’s used to that.” 

“ Not if he likes you ; and you might go further and 
fare worse.” 

“ Well, I must say ! ” Becky exclaimed, with a laugh ; 
“ you’d like to see me stuck in that hollow, out of your 
way ! ” 

“ It’s a good farm, I’ve heard,” said the other. 

“ Yes, and covered with as much as it’ll bear ! ” 

Here the girls were called away to the dance. Jacob 
slowly walked up the dewy meadow, the sounds of fid- 
dling, singing, and laughter growing fainter behind him. 

“ My journey ! ” he repeated to himself, — “ my jour- 
ney ! why shouldn’t I start on it now ? Start off, and 
never come back ? ” 

It was a very little thing, after all, which annoyed him, 
but the mention of it always touched a sore nerve of his 
nature. A dozen years before, when a boy at school, he 
had made a temporary friendship with another boy of his 


TALES OF HOME. 


1 1 6 

age, and had one day said to the latter, in the warmth of 
his first generous confidence : “ When I am a little older, 
I shall make a great journey, and come back rich, and buy 
Whitney’s place ! ” 

Now, Whitney’s place, with its stately old brick man- 
sion, its avenue of silver firs, and its two hundred acres of 
clean, warm-lying land, was the finest, the most aristocratic 
property in all the neighborhood, and the boy-friend could 
not resist the temptation of repeating Jacob’s grand design, 
for the endless amusement of the school. The betrayal 
hurt Jacob more keenly than the ridicule. It left a wound 
that never ceased to rankle ; yet, with the inconceivable 
perversity of unthinking natures, precisely this joke (as 
the people supposed it to be) had been perpetuated, until 
“Jake Flint’s Journey ” was a synonyme for any absurd 
or extravagant expectation. Perhaps no one imagined 
how much pain he was keeping alive ; for almost any other 
man than Jacob would have joined in the laugh against 
himself and thus good-naturedly buried the joke in time. 
“ He’s used to that,” the people said, like Becky Morton, 
and they really supposed there was nothing unkind in the 
remark ! 

After Jacob had passed the thickets and entered the 
lonely hollow in which his father’s house lay, his pace be- 
came slower and slower. He looked at the shabby old 
building, just touched by the moonlight behind the sway- 
ing shadows of the weeping-willow, stopped, looked again, 
and finally seated himself on a stump beside the path. 

“ If I knew what to do ! ” he said to himself, rocking 


JACOB FLINT’S JOURNEY. 1 17 

backwards and forwards, with his hands clasped over his 
knees, — “ if I knew what to do ! ” 

The spiritual tension of the evening reached its cli- 
max : he could bear no more. With a strong bodily shud- 
der his tears burst forth, and the passion of his weeping 
filled him from head to foot. How long he wept he knew 
not ; it seemed as if the hot fountains would never run dry. 
Suddenly and startlingly a hand fell upon his shoulder. 
“ Boy, what does this mean ? ” 

It was his father who stood before him. 

Jacob looked up like some shy animal brought to bay, 
his eyes full of a feeling mixed of fierceness and terror ; 
but he said nothing. 

His father seated himself on one of the roots of the 
old stump, laid one hand upon Jacob’s knee, and said 
with an unusual gentleness of manner, “ I’d like to know 
what it is that troubles you so much.” 

After a pause, Jacob suddenly burst forth with : “ Is 
there any reason why I should tell you ? Do you care any 
more for me than the rest of ’em ? ” 

“ I didn’t know as you wanted me to care for you par- 
ticularly,” said the father, almost deprecatingly. “ I al- 
ways thought you had friends of your own age.” 

“ Friends ? Devils ! ” exclaimed Jacob. “ Oh, what 
have I done — what is there so dreadful about me that I 
should always be laughed at, and despised, and trampled 
upon ? You are a great deal older than I am, father : 
what do you see in me ? Tell me what it is, and how to 
get over it ! ” 


1 1 8 


TALES OF HOME. 


The eyes of the two men met. Jacob saw his father’s 
face grow pale in the moonlight, while he pressed his hand 
involuntarily upon his heart, as if struggling with some 
physical pain. At last he spoke, but his words were 
strange and incoherent. 

“ I couldn’t sleep,” he said; “ I got up again and came 
out o’ doors. The white ox had broken down the fence 
at the corner, and would soon have been in the cornfield. 
I thought it was that, maybe, but still your — your mother 
would come into my head. I was coming down the edge 
of the wood when I saw you, and I don’t know why it was 
that you seemed so different, all at once — ” 

Here he paused, and was silent for a minute. Then 
he said, in a grave, commanding tone : “Just let me know 
the whole story. I have that much right yet.” 

Jacob related the history of the evening, somewhat 
awkwardly and confusedly, it is true ; but his father’s brief, 
pointed questions kept him to the narrative, and forced 
him to explain the full significance of the expressions he 
repeated. At the mention of “ Whitney’s place,” a singu- 
lar expression of malice touched the old man’s face. 

“ Do you love Becky Morton ? ” he asked bluntly, when 
all had been told. 

“ I don’t know,” Jacob stammered ; “ I think not ; be- 
cause when I seem to like her most, I feel afraid of her.” 

“ It’s lucky that you’re not sure of it ! ” exclaimed the 
old man with energy ; “ because you should never have her.” 

“ No,” said Jacob, with a mournful acquiescence, “ I 
can never have her, or any other one.” 


JACOB FLINT’S JOURNEY. II9 

“ But you shall — and will ! when I help you. It’s true 
I’ve not seemed to care much about you, and I suppose 
you’re free to think as you like ; but this I say : I’ll not 
stand by and see you spit upon ! ‘ Covered with as much 
as it’ll bear ! ’ That's a piece o’ luck anyhow. If we’re 
poor, your wife must take your poverty with you, or she 
don’t come into my doors. But first of all you must make 
your journey ! ” 

“ My journey ! ” repeated Jacob. 

“ Weren’t you thinking of it this night, before you took 
your seat on that stump ? A little more, and you’d have 
gone clean off, I reckon.” 

Jacob was silent, and hung his head. 

“ Never mind ! I’ve no right to think hard of it. In 
a week we’ll have finished our haying, and then it’s a fort- 
night to wheat ; but, for that matter, Harry and I can 
manage the wheat fyv ourselves. You may take a month, 
two months, if any thing comes of it. Under a month I 
don’t mean that you shall come back. I’ll give you twenty 
dollars for a start ; if you want more you must earn it 
on the road, any way you please. And, mark you, Jacob ! 
since you are poor, don’t let anybody suppose you are 
rich. For my part, I shall not expect you to buy Whit- 
ney’s place j all I ask is that you’ll tell me, fair and 
square, just what things and what people you’ve got ac- 
quainted with. Get to bed now — the matter’s settled ; I 
will have it so.” 

They rose and walked across the meadow to the house. 
Jacob had quite forgotten the events of the evening in the 


20 


TALES OF HOME. 


new prospect suddenly opened to him, which filled him with 
a wonderful confusion of fear and desire. His father said 
nothing more. They entered the lonely house together at 
midnight, and went to their beds ; but Jacob slept very 
little. 

Six days afterwards he left home, on a sparkling June 
morning, with a small bundle tied in a yellow silk hand- 
kerchief under his arm. His father had furnished him 
with the promised money, but had positively refused to 
tell him what road he should take, or what plan of action 
he should adopt. The only stipulation was that his ab- 
sence from home should not be less than a month. 

After he had passed the wood and reached the high- 
way which followed the course of the brook, he paused to 
consider which course to take. Southward the road led 
past Pardon’s, and he longed to see his only friends once 
more before encountering untried hazards ; but the vil- 
lage was beyond, and he had no courage to walk through 
its one long street with a bundle, denoting a journey, un- 
der his arm. Northward he would have to pass the mill 
and blacksmith’s shop at the cross-roads. Then he re- 
membered that he might easily wade the stream at a point 
where it was shallow, and keep in the shelter of the woods 
on the opposite hill until he struck the road farther on, 
and in that direction two or three miles would take him 
into a neighborhood where he was not known. 

Once in the woods, an exquisite sense of freedom 
came upon him. There was nothing mocking in the soft, 
graceful stir of the expanded foliage, in the twittering of 


JACOB FLINT’S JOURNEY. 121 

the unfrightened birds, or the scampering of the squirrels, 
over the rustling carpet of dead leaves,. He lay down 
upon the moss under a spreading beech-tree and tried to 
think ; but the thoughts would not come. He could not 
even clearly recall the keen troubles and mortifications 
he had endured : all things were so peaceful and beauti- 
ful that a portion of their peace and beauty fell upon men 
and invested them with a more kindly character. 

Towards noon Jacob found himself beyond the limited 
geography of his life. The first man he encountered was 
a stranger, who greeted him with a hearty and respectful 
“ How do you do, sir ? ” 

“ Perhaps,” thought Jacob, “ I am not so very differ- 
ent from other people, if I only thought so myself.” 

At noon, he stopped at a farm-house by the roadside 
to get a drink of water. A pleasant woman, who came 
from the door at that moment with a pitcher, allowed him 
to lower the bucket and haul it up dripping with precious 
coolness. She looked upon him with good-will, for he 
had allowed her to see his eyes, and something in their 
honest, appealing expression went to her heart. 

“ We’re going to have dinner in five minutes,” said 
she ; “ won’t you stay and have something ? ” 

Jacob stayed and brake bread with the plain, hospit- 
able family. Their kindly attention to him during the 
meal gave him the lacking nerve ; for a moment he re- 
solved to offer his services to the farmer, but he presently 
saw that they were not really needed, and, besides, the 
place was still too near home. 

6 


122 


TALES OF HOME. 


Towards night he reached an old country tavern, lord- 
ing it over an incipient village of six houses. The land- 
lord and hostler were inspecting a drooping-looking horse 
in front of the stables. Now, if there was any thing 
which Jacob understood, to the extent of his limited ex- 
perience, it was horse nature. He drew near, listened to 
the views of the two men, examined the animal with his 
eyes, and was ready to answer, “Yes, I guess so,” when 
the landlord said, “ Perhaps, sir, you can tell what is the 
matter with him.” 

His prompt detection of the ailment, and prescription 
of a remedy which in an hour showed its good effects, in- 
stalled him in the landlord’s best graces. The latter 
said, “ Well, it shall cost you nothing to-night,” as he led 
the way to the supper-room. When Jacob went to bed 
he was surprised on reflecting that he had not only been 
talking for a full hour in the bar-room, but had been 
looking people in the face. 

Resisting an offer of good wages if he would stay and 
help look after the stables, he set forward the next morn- 
ing with a new and most delightful confidence in himself. 
The knowledge that now nobody knew him as “Jake Flint ” 
quite removed his tortured self-consciousness. When he 
met a person who was glum and ungracious of speech, he 
saw, nevertheless, that he was not its special object. He 
was sometimes asked questions, to be sure, which a little 
embarrassed him, but he soon hit upon answers which 
were sufficiently true without betraying his purpose. 

Wandering sometimes to the right and sometimes 


JACOB FLINT’S JOURNEY. 


123 


to the left, he slowly made his way into the land, until, on 
the afternoon of the fourth day after leaving home, he 
found himself in a rougher region — a rocky, hilly tract, 
with small and not very flourishing farms in the valleys. 
Here the season appeared to be more backward than in 
the open country ; the hay harvest was not yet over. 

Jacob’s taste for scenery was not particularly culti- 
vated, but something in the loneliness and quiet of the 
farms reminded him of his own home ; and he looked at 
one house after another, deliberating with himself whether 
it would not be a good place to spend the remainder of 
his month of probation. He seemed to be very far from 
home — about forty miles, in fact, — and was beginning to 
feel a little tired of wandering. 

Finally the road climbed a low pass of the hills, and 
dropped into a valley on the opposite side. There was 
but one house in view — a two-story building of logs and 
plaster, with a garden and orchard on the hillside in the 
rear. A large meadow stretched in front, and when the 
whole of it lay clear before him, as the road issued from 
a wood, his eye was caught by an unusual harvest picture. 

Directly before him,' a woman, whose face was con- 
cealed by a huge, flapping sun-bonnet, was seated upon a 
mowing machine, guiding a span of horses around the 
great tract of thick grass which was still uncut. A little 
distance off, a boy and girl were raking the drier swaths 
together, and a hay-cart, drawn by oxen and driven by a 
man, was just entering the meadow from the side next the 
barn. 


124 


TALES OF HOME. 


Jacob hung his bundle upon a stake, threw his coat 
and waistcoat over the rail, and, resting his chin on his 
shirted arms, leaned on the fence, and watched the hay- 
makers. As the woman came down the nearer side she 
appeared to notice him, for her head was turned from time 
to time in his direction. When she had made the round, 
she stopped the horses at the corner, sprang, lightly from 
her seat and called to the man, who, leaving his team, 
met her half-way. They were nearly a furlong distant, 
but Jacob was quite sure that she pointed to him, and 
that the man looked in the same direction. Presently 
she set off across the meadow, directly towards him. 

When within a few paces of the fence, she stopped, 
threw back the flaps of her sun-bonnet, and said, “ Good 
day to you ! ” 

Jacob was so amazed to see a bright, fresh, girlish 
face, that he stared at her with all his eyes, forgetting to • 
drop his head. Indeed, he could not have done so, for 
his chin was propped upon the top rail of the fence. 

“You are a stranger, I see,” she added. 

“Yes, in these parts,” he replied. 

“ Looking for work ? ” 

He hardly knew what answer to make, so he said, at a 
venture, “That’s as it happens.” Then he colored a 
little, for the words seemed foolish to his ears. 

“ Time’s precious,” said the girl, “ so I’ll tell you at 
once we want help. Our hay must be got in while the 
fine weather lasts.” 

“I’ll help you!” Jacob exclaimed, taking his arms 
from the rail, and looking as willing as he felt. 


JACOB FLINT’S JOURNEY. 125 

“ I’m so glad ! But I must tell you, at first, that we’re 
not rich, and the hands are asking a great deal now. 
How much do you expect ? ” 

“ Whatever you please ? ” said he, climbing the fence. 

“ No, that’s not our way of doing business. What do 
you say to a dollar a day, and found ? ” 

“ All right ! ” and with the words he was already at 
her side, taking long strides over the elastic turf. 

“ I will go on with my mowing,” said she, when they 
reached the horses, “ and you can rake and load with my 
father. What name shall I call you by ? ” 

“ Everybody calls me Jake.” 

“ ‘ Jake ! ’ Jacob is better. Well, Jacob, I hope you’ll 
give us all the help you can.” 

With a nod and a light laugh she sprang upon the 
machine. There was a sweet throb in Jacob’s heart, 
which, if he could h^ve expressed it, would have been a 
triumphant shout of “ I’m not afraid of her ! I’m not 
afraid of her ! ” 

The farmer was a kindly, depressed man, with whose 
quiet ways Jacob instantly felt himself at home. They 
worked steadily until sunset, when the girl, detaching her 
horses from the machine, mounted one of them and led 
the other to the barn. At the supper-table, the farmer’s 
wife said : “ Susan, you must be very tired.” 

“ Not now, mother ! ” she cheerily answered. “ I was, 
I think, but after I picked up Jacob I felt sure we should 
get our hay in.” 

“ It was a good thing,” said the farmer ; “Jacob don’t 
need to be told how to work.” 


126 


TALES OF HOME. 


Poor Jacob ! He was so happy he could have cried. 
He sat and listened, and blushed a little, with a smile on 
his face which it was a pleasure to see. The honest peo- 
ple did not seem to regard him in the least as a stranger ; 
they discussed their family interests and troubles and 
hopes before him, and in a little while it seemed as if he 
had known them always. 

How faithfully he worked ! How glad and tired he 
felt when night came, and the hay-mow was filled, and the 
great stacks grew beside the barn ! But ah ! the haying 
came to an end, and on the last evening, at supper, 
everybody was constrained and silent. Even Susan looked 
grave and thoughtful. 

“Jacob,” said the farmer, finally, “I wish we could 
keep you until wheat harvest ; but you know we are poor, 
and can’t afford it. Perhaps you could — ” 

He hesitated; but Jacob, catching at the chance and 
obeying his own unselfish impulse, cried : “ Oh, yes, I 
can; I’ll be satisfied with my board, till the wheat’s 
ripe.” 

Susan looked at him quickly, with a bright, speaking 
face. 

“ It’s hardly fair to you,” said the farmer. 

“ But I like to be here so much ! ” Jacob cried. “ I 
like — all of you ! ” 

“We do seem to suit,” said the farmer, “like as one 
family. And that reminds me, we’ve not heard your fam- 
ily name yet.” 

“ Flint.” 


JACOB FLINT’S JOURNEY. 12 7 

“ Jacob Flint!” exclaimed the farmer’s wife, with sud- 
den agitation. 

Jacob was scared and troubled. They had heard of 
him, he thought, and who knew what ridiculous stories ? 
Susan noticed an anxiety on his face which she could not 
understand, but she unknowingly came to his relief. 

“Why, mother,” she asked, “do you know Jacob’s 
family?” 

“ No, I think not,” said her mother, “ only somebody 
of the name, long ago.” 

His offer, however, was gratefully accepted. The 
bright, hot summer days came and went, but no flower of 
July ever opened as rapidly and richly and warmly as his 
chilled, retarded nature. New thoughts and instincts 
came with every morning’s sun, and new conclusions were 
reached with every evening’s twilight Yet as the wheat 
harvest drew towards the end, he felt that he must leave 
the place. The month of absence had gone by, he scarce 
knew how. He was free to return home, and, though he 
might offer to bridge over the gap between wheat and 
oats, as he had already done between hay and wheat, he 
imagined the family might hesitate to accept such an offer. 
Moreover, this life at Susan’s side was fast growing to be 
a pain, unless he could assure himself that it would be 
so forever. 

They were in the wheat-field, busy with the last 
sheaves, she raking and he binding. The farmer and 
younger children had gone to the barn with a load. 
Jacob was working silently and steadily, but when they 


128 


TALES OF HOME. 


had reached the end of a row, he stopped, wiped his wet 
brow, and suddenly said, “ Susan, I suppose to-day fin- 
ishes my work here.” 

“ Yes,” she answered very slowly. 

“ And yet I’m very sorry to go.” 

“ I — we don’t want you to go, if we could help it.” 

Jacob appeared to struggle with himself. He attempt- 
ed to speak. “ If I could — ” he brought out, and then 
paused. “ Susan, would you be glad if I came 
back ? ” 

His eyes implored her to read his meaning. No doubt 
she read it correctly, for her face flushed, her eyelids fell, 
and she barely murmured, “Yes, Jacob.” 

“ Then I’ll come ! ” he cried ; “ I’ll come and help 
you with the oats. Don’t talk of pay ! Only tell me I’ll 
be welcome ! Susan, don’t you believe I’ll keep my 
word?” 

“ I do indeed,” said she, looking him firmly in the 
face. 

That was all that was said at the time ; but the two 
understood each other tolerably well. 

On the afternoon of the second day, Jacob saw again 
the lonely house of his father. His journey was made, 
yet, if any of the neighbors had seen him, they would 
never have believed that he had come back rich. 

Samuel Flint turned away to hide a peculiar smile 
when he saw his son ; but little was said until late that 
evening, after Harry and Sally had left. Then he requir- 
ed and received an exact account of Jacob’s experience 


JACOB FLINT’S JOURNEY. 1 29 

during his absence. After hearing the story to the end, 
he said, “ And so you love this Susan Meadows ? ” 

“ I’d — I’d do any thing to be with her.” 

“ Are you afraid of her ? ” 

“ No ! ” Jacob uttered the word so emphatically that 
it rang through the house. 

“Ah, well ! ” said the old man, lifting his eyes, and speak- 
ing in the air, “ all the harm may be mended yet. But there 
must be another test.” Then he was silent for some time. 

“ I have it ! ” he finally exclaimed. “ Jacob, you must 
go back for the oats harvest. You must ask Susan to be 
your wife, and ask her parents to let you have her. But, 
— pay attention to my words ! — you must tell her that 
you are a poor, hired man on this place, and that she can 
be engaged as housekeeper. Don’t speak of me as your 
father, but as the owner of the farm. Bring her here in 
that belief, and let me see how honest and willing she is. 
I can easily arrange matters with Harry and Sally while 
you are away ; and I’ll only ask you to keep up the ap- 
pearance of the thing for a month or so.” 

“ But, father,” — Jacob began. 

“ Not a word ! Are you not willing to do that much 
for the sake of having her all your life, and this farm after 
me ? Suppose it is covered with a mortgage, if she is all 
you say, you two can work it off. Not a word more ! It 
is no lie, after all, that you will tell her.” 

“I am afraid,” said Jacob, “ that she could not leave 
her home now. She is too useful there, and the family is 
so poor.” 


6 * 


130 


TA) ES OF HOME. 


“ Tell them that both your wages, for the first year, 
shall go to them. It’ll be my business to rake and scrape 
the money together somehow. Say, too, that the house- 
keeper’s place can’t be kept for her — must be filled at 
once. Push matters like a man, if you mean to be a com- 
plete one, and bring her here, if she carries no more with 
her than the clothes on her back ! ” 

During the following days Jacob had time to familiar- 
ize his mind with this startling proposal. He knew his 
father’s stubborn will too well to suppose that it could be 
changed ; but the inevitable soon converted itself into the 
possible and desirable. The sweet face of Susan as she 
had stood before him in the wheat-field was continually 
present to his eyes, and ere long, he began to place her, 
in his thoughts, in the old rooms at home, in the garden, 
among the thickets by the brook, and in Ann Pardon’s 
pleasant parlor. Enough ; his father’s plan became his 
own long before the time was out. 

On his second journey everybody seemed to be an 
old acquaintance and an intimate friend. It was evening 
as he approached the Meadows farm, but the younger 
children recognized him in the dusk, and their cry of, 
“Oh, here’s Jacob!” brought out the farmer and his 
wife and Susan, with the heartiest of welcomes. They 
had all missed him, they said — even the horses and oxen 
had looked for him, and they were wondering how they 
should get the oats harvested without him. 

Jacob looked at Susan as the farmer said this, and 
her eyes seemed to answer, “ I said nothing, but I knew 


JACOB FLINT’S JOURNEY. 1 3 1 

you would come.” Then, first, he felt sufficient courage 
for the task before him. 

He rose the next morning, before any one was stirring, 
and waited until she should come down stairs. The sun 
had not risen when she appeared, with a milk-pail in each 
hand, walking unsuspectingly to the cow-yard. He way- 
laid her, took the pails in his hand and said in nervous 
haste, “ Susan, will you be my wife ? ” 

She stopped as if she had received a sudden blow ; 
then a shy, sweet consent seemed to run through her heart. 
“ O Jacob ! ” was all she could say. 

“ But you will, Susan ? ” he urged ; and then (neither 
of them exactly knew how it happened) all at once his 
arms were around her, and they had kissed each other. 

“ Susan,” he said, presently, “lam a poor man — only 
a farm hand, and must work for my living. You could 
look for a better husband.” 

“ I could never find a better than you, Jacob.” 

“ Would you work with me, too, at the same place ? ” 

“ You know I am not afraid of work,” she answered, 
“ and I could never want any other lot than yours.” 

Then he told her the story which his father had prompt- 
ed. Her face grew bright and happy as she listened, and 
he saw how from her very heart she accepted the humble 
fortune. Only the thought of her parents threw a cloud 
over the new and astonishing vision. Jacob, however, 
grew bolder as he saw fulfilment of his hope so near. 
They took the pails and seated themselves beside neigh- 
bor cows, one raising objections or misgivings which the 


i3 2 


TALES OF HOME. 


other manfully combated. Jacob’s earnestness uncon- 
sciously ran into his hands, as he discovered when the im- 
patient cow began to snort and kick. 

The harvesting of the oats was not commenced that 
morning. The children were sent away, and there was a 
council of four persons held in the parlor. The result of 
mutual protestations and much weeping was, that the far- 
mer and his wife agreed to receive Jacob as a son-in-law ; 
the offer of the wages was four times refused by them, and 
then accepted ; and the chance of their being able to live 
and labor together was finally decided to be too fortunate 
to let slip. When the shock and surprise was over all 
gradually became cheerful, and, as the matter was more 
calmly discussed, the first conjectured difficulties somehow 
resolved themselves into trifles. 

It was the simplest and quietest wedding, — at home, 
on an August morning. Farmer Meadows then drove the 
bridal pair half-way on their journey, to the old country 
tavern, where a fresh conveyance had been engaged for 
them. The same evening they reached the farm-house in 
the valley, and Jacob’s happy mood gave place to an anx- 
ious uncertainty as he remembered the period of deception 
upon which Susan was entering. He keenly watched his 
father’s face when they arrived, and was a little relieved 
when he saw that his wife had made a good first impres- 
sion. 

“ So, this is my new housekeeper,” said the old man. 
“ I hope you will suit me as well as your husband does.” 

“ I’ll do my best, sir,” said she ; “ but you must have 


JACOB FLINT’S JOURNEY. 1 33 

patience with me for a few days, until I know your ways 
and wishes.” 

“ Mr. Flint,” said Sally, “ shall I get supper ready ? ” 

Susan looked up in astonishment at hearing the name. 

“ Yes,” the old man remarked, “ we both have the 
same name. The fact is, Jacob and I are a sort of rela- 
tions.” 

Jacob, in spite of his new happiness, continued ill at 
ease, although he could not help seeing how his father 
brightened under Susan’s genial influence, how satisfied 
he was with her quick, neat, exact ways and the cheerful- 
ness with which she fulfilled her duties. At the end of a 
week, the old man counted out the wages agreed upon for 
both, and his delight culminated at the frank simplicity 
with which Susan took what she supposed she had fairly 
earned. 

“Jacob,” he whispered when she had left the room, 
“ keep quiet one more week, and then I’ll let her know.” 

He had scarcely spoken, when Susan burst into the 
room again, crying, “Jacob, they are coming, they have 
come ! ” 

“ Who ? ” 

“ Father and mother ; and we didn’t expect them, you 
know, for a week yet.” 

All three went to the door as the visitors made their 
appearance on the veranda. Two of the party stood as 
if thunderstruck, and two exclamations came together : 

“ Samuel Flint ! ” 

“ Lucy Wheeler ! ” 


134 


TALES OF HOME. 


There was a moment’s silence ; then the farmer’s wife, 
with a visible effort to compose herself, said, “ Lucy Mead- 
ows, now.” 

The tears came into Samuel Flint’s eyes. “ Let us 
shake hands, Lucy,” he said : “ my son has married your 
daughter.” 

All but Jacob were freshly startled at these words. 
The two shook hands, and then Samuel, turning to Su- 
san’s father, said : “ And this is your husband, Lucy. I 

am glad to make his acquaintance.” 

“ Your father, Jacob ! ” Susan cried ; “ what does it all 
mean ? ” 

Jacob’s face grew red, and the old habit of hanging his 
head nearly came back upon him. He knew not what to 
say, and looked wistfully at his father. 

“ Come into the house and sit down,” said the latter. 
“ I think we shall all feel better when we have quietly and 
comfortably talked the matter over.” 

They went into the quaint, old-fashioned parlor, which 
had already been transformed by Susan’s care, so that 
much of its shabbiness was hidden. When all were seated, 
and Samuel Flint perceived that none of the others knew 
what to say, he took a resolution which, for a man of his 
mood and habit of life, required some courage. 

“ Three of us here are old people,” he began, “ and 
the two young ones love each other. It was so long ago, 
Lucy, that it cannot be laid to my blame if I speak of it 
now. Your husband, I see, has an honest heart, and will 
not misunderstand either of us. The same thing often 


JACOB FLINT’S JOURNEY. 


135 


turns up in life ; it is one of those secrets that everybody 
knows, and that everybody talks about except the persons 
concerned. When I was a young man, Lucy, I loved you 
truly, and I faithfully meant to make you my wife.” 

“ I thought so too, for a while,” said she, very calmly. 

Farmer Meadows looked at his wife, and no face was 
ever more beautiful than his, with that expression of gen- 
erous pity shining through it. 

“ You know how I acted,” Samuel Flint continued, 
“ but our children must also know that I broke off from 
you without giving any reason. A woman came between 
us and made all the mischief. I was considered rich then, 
and she wanted to secure my money for her daughter. I 
was an innocent and unsuspecting young man, who be- 
lieved that everybody else was as good as myself ; and 
the woman never rested until she had turned me from my 
first love, and fastened me for life to another. Little by 
little I discovered the truth ; I kept the knowledge of the 
injury to myself ; I quickly got rid of the money which 
had so cursed me, and brought my wife to this, the lone- 
liest and dreariest place in the neighborhood, where I 
forced upon her a life of poverty. I thought it was a just 
revenge, but I was unjust. She really loved me : she was, 
if not quite without blame in the matter, ignorant of the 
worst that had been done (I learned all that too late), and 
she never complained, though the change in me slowly 
wore out her life. I know now that I was cruel ; but at 
the same time I punished myself, and was innocently pun- 
ishing my son. But to hbn there was one way to make 


TALES OF HOME. 


136 

amends. ‘ I will help him to a wife,’ I said, ‘ who will 
gladly take poverty with him and for his sake.’ I forced 
him, against his will, to say that he was a hired hand on 
this place, and that Susan must be content to be a hired 
housekeeper. Now that I know Susan, I see that this 
proof might have been left out ; but I guess it has done 
no harm. The place is not so heavily mortgaged as peo- 
ple think, and it will be Jacob’s after I am gone. And 
now forgive me, all of you, — Lucy first, for she has most 
cause ; Jacob next ; and Susan, — that will be easier ; and 
you, Friend Meadows, if what I have said has been hard 
for you to hear.” 

The farmerstood up like a man, took Samuel’s hand 
and his wife’s, and said, in a broken voice : “ Lucy, I ask 
you, too, to forgive him, and I ask you both to be good 
friends to each other.” 

Susan, dissolved in tears, kissed all of them in turn ; 
but the happiest heart there was Jacob’s. 

It was now easy for him to confide to his wife the 
complete story of his troubles, and to find his growing 
self-reliance strengthened by her quick, intelligent sympa- 
thy. The Pardons were better friends than ever, and the 
fact, which at first created great astonishment in the 
neighborhood, that Jacob Flint had really gone upon a 
journey and brought home a handsome wife, began to 
change the attitude of the people towards him. The old 
place was no longer so lonely ; the nearest neighbors be- 
gan to drop in and insist on return visits. Now that Ja- 
cob kept his head up, and they got a fair view of his face, 


JACOB FLINT’S JOURNEY. 


137 


they discovered that he was not lacking, after all, in sense 
or social qualities. 

In October, the Whitney place, which had been leased 
for several years, was advertised to be sold at public sale. 
The owner had gone to the city and become a successful 
merchant, had outlived his local attachments, and now 
took advantage of a rise in real estate to disburden him- 
self of a property which he could not profitably control. 

Everybody from far and wide attended the sale, and, 
when Jacob Flint and his father arrived, everybody said 
to the former : “Of course you’ve, come to buy, Jacob.” 
But each man laughed at his own smartness, and consid- 
ered the remark original with himself. 

Jacob was no longer annoyed. He laughed, too, and 
answered : “ I’m afraid I can’t do that ; but I’ve kept half 
my word, which is more than most men do.” 

“Jake’s no fool, after all,” was whispered behind him. 

The bidding commenced, at first very spirited, and 
then gradually slacking off, as the price mounted above 
the means of the neighboring farmers. The chief aspi- 
rant was a stranger, a well-dressed man with a lawyer’s 
air, whom nobody knew. After the usual long pauses 
and passionate exhortations, the hammer fell, and the auc- 
tioneer, turning to the stranger, asked, “ What name ? ” 

“ Jacob Flint ! ” 

There was a general cry of surprise. All looked at 
Jacob, whose eyes and mouth showed that he was as 
dumbfoundered as the rest. 

The stranger walked coolly through the midst of the 


133 


TALES OF HOME. 


crowd to Samuel Flint, and said, “ When shall I have the 
papers drawn up ? ” 

“ As soon as you can,” the old man replied ; then seiz- 
ing Jacob by the arm, with the words, “Let’s go home 
now ! ” he hurried him on. 

The explanation soon leaked out. Samuel Flint had 
not thrown away his wealth, but had put it out of his own 
hands. It was given privately to trustees, to be held for 
his son, and returned when the latter should have married 
with his father’s consent. There was more than enough 
to buy the Whitney place. 

Jacob and Susan are happy in their stately home, and 
good as they are happy. If any person in the neighbor- 
hood ever makes use of the phrase “Jacob Flint’s Jour- 
ney,” he intends thereby to symbolize the good fortune 
which sometimes follows honesty, reticence, and shrewd- 
ness. 


CAN A LIFE HIDE ITSELF? 


HAD been reading, as is my wont from 
time to time, one of the many volumes of 
“ The New Pitaval,” that singular record 
of human crime and human cunning, and 
also of the inevitable fatality which, in ev- 
ery case, leaves a gate open for detection. 
Were it not for the latter fact, indeed, one would turn 
with loathing from such endless chronicles of wickedness. 
Yet these may be safely contemplated, when one has dis- 
covered the incredible fatuity of crime, the certain weak 
mesh in a network of devilish texture ; or is it rather the 
agency of a power outside of man, a subtile protecting 
principle, which allows the operation of the evil element 
only that the latter may finally betray itself? Whatever 
explanation we may choose, the fact is there, like a tonic 
medicine distilled from poisonous plants, to brace our faith 
in the ascendancy of Good in the government of the world. 

Laying aside the book, I fell into a speculation con- 
cerning the mixture of the two elements in man’s nature. 
The life of an individual is usually, it seemed lo me, a 



140 


TALES OF HOME. 


series of results , the processes leading to which are not 
often visible, or observed when they are so. Each act is 
the precipitation of a number of mixed influences, more 
or less unconsciously felt ; the qualities of good and evil 
are so blended therein that they defy the keenest moral 
analysis; and how shall we, then, pretend to judge of 
any one ? Perhaps the surest indication of evil (I further 
reflected) is that it always tries to conceal itself, and the 
strongest incitement to good is that evil cannot be con- 
cealed. The crime, or the vice, or even the self-acknowl- 
edged weakness, becomes apart of the individual conscious- 
ness ; it cannot be forgotten or outgrown. It follows a 
life through all experiences and to the uttermost ends of 
the earth, pressing towards the light with a terrible, demo- 
niac power. There are noteless lives, of course — lives 
that accept obscurity, mechanically run their narrow round 
of circumstance, and are lost ; but when a life endeavors 
to lose itself, — to hide some conscious guilt or failure, — 
can it succeed ? Is it not thereby lifted above the level 
of common experience, compelling attention to itself by 
the very endeavor to escape it ? 

I turned these questions over in my mind, without ap- 
proaching, or indeed expecting, any solution, — since I 
knew r , from habit, the labyrinths into which they would 
certainly lead me, — when a visitor was announced. It 
was one of the directors of our county almshouse, who 
came on an errand to which he attached no great impor- 
tance. I owed the visit, apparently, to the circumstance 
that my home lay in his way, and he could at once relieve 


CAN A LIFE HIDE ITSELF? 141 

his conscience of a very trifling pressure and his pocket 
of a small package, by calling upon me. His story was 
told in a few words ; the package was placed upon my 
table, and I was again left to my meditations. 

Two or three days before, a man who had the appear- 
ance of a “ tramp” had been observed by the people of a 
small village in the neighborhood. He stopped and looked 
at the houses in a vacant way, walked back and forth 
once or twice as if uncertain which of the cross-roads to 
take, and presently went on without begging or even speak- 
ing to any one. Towards sunset a farmer, on his way to 
the village store, found him sitting at the roadside, his 
head resting against a fence-post. The man’s face was 
so worn and exhausted that the farmer kindly stopped 
and addressed him ; but he gave no other reply than a 
shake of the head. 

The farmer thereupon lifted him into his light country- 
wagon, the man offering no resistance, and drove to the 
tavern, where, his exhaustion being so evident, a glass of 
whiskey was administered to him. He afterwards spoke 
a few words in German, which no one understood. At 
the almshouse, to which he was transported the same 
evening, he refused to answer the customary questions, 
although he appeared to understand them. The physician 
was obliged to use a slight degree of force in administer- 
ing nourishment and medicine, but neither was of any 
avail. The man died within twenty-four hours after be- 
ing received. His pockets were empty, but two small 
leathern wallets were found under his pillow ; and these 


142 


TALES OF HOME. 


formed the package which the director left in my charge. 
They were full of papers in a foreign language, he said, 
and he supposed I might be able to ascertain the stran- 
ger’s name and home from them. 

I took up the wallets, which were worn and greasy 
from long service, opened them, and saw that they were 
filled with scraps, fragments, and folded pieces of paper, 
nearly every one of which had been carried for a long 
time loose in the pocket. Some were written in pen and 
ink, and some in pencil, but all were equally brown, worn, 
and unsavory in appearance. In turning them over, how- 
ever, my eye was caught by some slips in the Russian 
character, and three or four notes in French ; the rest 
were German. I laid aside “ Pitaval” at once, emptied 
all the leathern pockets carefully, and set about examin- 
ing the pile of material. 

I first ran rapidly through the papers to ascertain the 
dead man’s name, but it was nowhere to be found. There 
were half a dozen letters, written on sheets folded and 
addressed in the fashion which prevailed before envelopes 
were invented ; but the name was cut out of the address 
in every case. There was an official permit to embark 
on board a Bremen steamer, mutilated in the same way ; 
there was a card photograph, from which the face had 
been scratched by a penknife. There were Latin senten- 
ces ; accounts of expenses ; a list of New York addresses, 
covering eight pages ; and a number of notes, written 
either in Warsaw or Breslau. A more incongruous collec- 
tion I never saw, and I am sure that had it not been for 


CAN A LIFE HIDE ITSELF? 


143 


the train of thought I was pursuing when the director 
called upon me, I should have returned the papers to him 
without troubling my head with any attempt to unravel 
the man's story. 

The evidence, however, that he had endeavored to 
hide his life, had been revealed by my first superficial ex- 
amination ; and here, I reflected, was a singular opportu- 
nity to test both his degree of success and my own power 
of constructing a coherent history out of the detached 
fragments. Unpromising as is the matter, said I, let me 
see whether he can conceal his secret from even such un- 
practised eyes as mine. 

I went through the papers again, read each one rapid- 
ly, and arranged them in separate files, according to the 
character of their contents. Then I rearranged these 
latter in the order of time, so far as it was indicated ; and 
afterwards commenced the work of picking out and thread- 
ing together whatever facts might be noted. The first 
thing I ascertained, or rather conjectured, was that the 
man’s life might be divided into three very distinct 
phases, the first ending in Breslau, the second in Poland, 
and the third and final one in America. Thereupon I 
once again rearranged the material, and attacked that 
which related to the first phase. 

It consisted of the following papers : Three letters, in 
a female hand, commencing “ My dear brother,” and ter- 
minating with “ Thy loving sister, Elise ; ” part of a diplo- 
ma from a gymnasium, or high school, certifying that 
[here the name was cut out] had successfully passed his 


144 


TALES OF HOME. 


examination, and was competent to teach, — and here 
again, whether by accident or design, the paper was torn 
off ; a note, apparently to a jeweller, ordering a certain 
gold ring to be delivered to “Otto,” and signed “ B. v. 
H. ; ” a receipt from the package-post for a box forwarded 
to Warsaw, to the address of Count Ladislas Kasincsky ; 
and finally a washing-list, at the bottom of which was 
written, in pencil, in a trembling hand : “ May God pro- 
tect thee ! But do not stay away so very long.” 

In the second collection, relating to Poland, I found 
the following : Six orders in Russian and three in French, 
requesting somebody to send by “Jean” sums of money, 
varying from two to eight hundred rubles. These orders 
were in the same hand, and all signed “ Y.” A charming 
letter in French, addressed “ cher ami” and declining, in 
the most delicate and tender way, an offer of marriage 
made to the sister of the writer, of whose signature only 
“Amelie de” remained, the family name having been 
torn off. A few memoranda of expenses, one of which 
was curious : “ Dinner with Jean, 58 rubles ; ” and imme- 
diately after it : “ Doctor, 10 rubles.” There were, more- 
over, a leaf torn out of a journal, and half of a note which 
had been torn down the middle, both implicating “ Jean ” 
in some way with the fortunes of the dead man. 

The papers belonging to the American phase, so far 
as they were to be identified by dates, or by some inter- 
nal evidence, were fewer, but even more enigmatical in 
character. The principal one was a list of addresses in 
New York, divided into sections, the street boundaries of 


CAN A LIFE HIDE ITSELF? 


145 


which were given. There were no names, but some of the 
addresses were marked +, and others ?, and a few had 
been crossed out with a pencil. Then there were some 
leaves of a journal of diet and bodily symptoms, of a very 
singular character ; three fragments of drafts of letters, in 
pencil, one of them commencing, “ Dog and villain ! ” and 
a single note of “ Began work, September 10th, 1865.” 
This was about a year before his death. 

The date of the diploma given by the gymnasium at 
Breslau was June 27, 1855, and the first date in Poland 
was May 3, 1861. Belonging to the time between these 
two periods there were only the order for the ring (1858), 
and a little memorandum in pencil, dated “ Posen, Dec., 
1859.” The last date in Poland was March 18, 1863, and 
the permit to embark at Bremen was dated in October of 
that year. Here, at least, was a slight chronological 
framework. The physician who attended the county 
almshouse had estimated the man’s age at thirty, which, 
supposing him to have been nineteen at the time of 
receiving the diploma, confirmed the dates to that ex- 
tent. 

I assumed, at the start, that the name which had been 
so carefully cut out of all the documents was the man’s 
own. The “ Elise ” of the letters was therefore his sister. 
The first two letters related merely to “mother’s health,” 
and similar details, from which it was impossible to ex- 
tract any thing, except that the sister was in some kind of 
service. The second letter closed with : “ I have enough 
work to do, but I keep well. Forget thy disappointment 
7 


146 


TALES OF HOME. 


so far as I am concerned, for I never expected any thing ; 
I don’t know why, but I never did.” 

Here was a disappointment, at least, to begin with. I 
made a note of it opposite the date, on my blank pro- 
gramme, and took up the next letter. It was written in 
November, 1861, and contained a passage which keenly 
excited my curiosity. It ran thus : “ Do, pray, be more 
careful of thy money. It may be all as thou sayest, and 
inevitable, but I dare not mention the thing to mother, 
and five thalers is all I can spare out of my own wages. 
As for thy other request, I have granted it, as thou seest, 
but it makes me a little anxious. What is the joke? 
And how can it serve thee? That is what I do not 
understand, and I have plagued myself not a little to 
guess.” 

Among the Polish memoranda was this : “ Sept. 1 to 
Dec. 1, 200 rubles,” which I assumed to represent a sal- 
ary. This would give him eight hundred a year, at least 
twelve times the amount which his sister — who must 
either have been cook or housekeeper, since she spoke 
of going to market for the family — could have received. 
His application to her for money, and the manner of her 
reference to it, indicated some imprudence or irregularity 
on his part. What the “ other request ” was, I could not 
guess ; but as I was turning and twisting the worn leaf in 
some perplexity, I made a sudden discovery. One side 
of the bottom edge had been very slightly doubled ovei 
in folding, and as I smoothed it out, I noticed some di- 
minutive letters in the crease. The paper had been worn 


CAN A LIFE HIDE ITSELF? 


147 


nearly through, but I made out the words: “ Write very 
soon, dear Otto ! ” 

This was the name in the order for the gold ring, 
signed “ B. v. H.” — a link, indeed, but a fresh puzzle. 
Knowing the stubborn prejudices of caste in Germany, 
and above all in Eastern Prussia and Silesia, I should 
have been compelled to accept “ Otto,” whose sister was 
in service, as himself the servant of “ B. v. H.,” but for 
the tenderly respectful letter of “Amelie de ,” declin- 

ing the marriage offer for her sister. I re-read this letter 
very carefully, to determine whether it was really intended 
for “ Otto.” It ran thus : 

“ Dear Friend, — I will not say that your letter was 
entirely unexpected, either to Helmine or myself. I 
should, perhaps, have less faith in the sincerity of your 
attachment if you had not already involuntarily betrayed 
it. When I say that although I detected the inclination 
of your heart some weeks ago, and that I also saw it was 
becoming evident to my sister, yet I refrained from men- 
tioning the subject at all until she came to me last even- 
ing with your letter in her hand, — when I say this, you 
will understand that I have acted towards you with the 
respect and sympathy which I profoundly feel. Helmine 
fully shares this feeling, and her poor heart is too pain- 
fully moved to allow her to reply. Do I not say, in say- 
ing this, what her reply must be ? But, though her heart 
cannot respond to your love, she hopes you will always 
believe her a friend to whom your proffered devotion was 
an honor, and will be — if you will subdue it to her de- 
serts — a grateful thing to remember. We shall remain in 
Warsaw a fortnight longer, as I think yourself will agree 


TALES OF HOME. 


148 

that it is better we should not immediately return to the 
castle. Jean, who must carry a fresh order already, will 
bring you this, and we hope to have good news of Henri. 

I send back the papers, which were unnecessary ; we 
never doubted you, and we shall of course keep your se- 
cret so long as you choose to wear it. 

“Amelie de ” 

The more light I seemed to obtain, the more inexpli- 
cable the circumstances became. The diploma and the 
note of salary were grounds for supposing that “ Otto ” 
occupied the position of tutor in a noble Polish family. 
There was the receipt for a box addressed to Count Lad- 
islas Kasincsky, and I temporarily added his family name 
to the writer of the French letter, assuming her to be his 
wife. “Jean” appeared to be a servant, and “ Henri” I 
set down as the son whom Otto was instructing in the cas- 
tle or family seat in the country, while the parents were 
in Warsaw. Plausible, so far ; but the letter was not such 
a one as a countess would have written to her son’s tutor, 
under similar circumstances. It was addressed to a social 
equal, apparently to a man younger than herself, and for 
whom — supposing him to have been a tutor, secretary, or 
something of the kind — she must have felt a special sym- 
pathy. Her mention of “ the papers ” and “ your secret ” 
must refer to circumstances which would explain the mys- 
tery. “ So long as you choose to wear it,” she had writ- 
ten : then it was certainly a secret connected with his 
personal history. 

Further, it appeared that “ Jean ” was sent to him with 


CAN A LIFE HIDE ITSELF? 1 49 

“ an order.” What could this be, but one of the nine or- 
ders for money which lay before my eyes ? I examined 
the dates of the latter, and lo ! there was one written 
upon the same day as the lady’s letter. The sums drawn 
by these orders amounted in all to four thousand two hun- 
dred rubles. But how should a tutor or secretary be in 
possession of his employer’s money ? Still, this might be 
accounted for ; it would imply great trust on the part of 
the latter, but no more than one man frequently reposes 
in another. Yet, if it were so, one of the memoranda 
confronted me with a conflicting fact : “ Dinner with Jean, 
58 rubles.” The unusual amount — nearly fifty dollars— 
indicated an act of the most reckless dissipation, and in 
company with a servant, if “Jean,” as I could scarcely 
doubt, acted in that character. I finally decided to as- 
sume both these conjectures as true, and apply them to the 
remaining testimony. 

I first took up the leaf which had been torn out of a 
small journal or pocket note-book, as was manifested by 
the red edge on three sides. It was scribbled over with 
brief notes in pencil, written at different times. Many of 
them were merely mnemonic signs ; but the recurrence 
of the letters J and Y seemed to point to transactions with 
“ Jean,” and the drawer of the various sums of money. 
The letter Y reminded me that I had been too hasty in 
giving the name of Kasincsky to the noble family ; in- 
deed, the name upon the post-office receipt might have no 
connection with the matter I was trying to investigate. 
Suddenly I noticed a * Ky ” among the mnemonic signs, 


50 


TALES OF HOME. 


and the suspicion flashed across my mind that Count Ka- 
sincsky had signed the order with the last letter of his 
family name ! To assume this, however, suggested a secret 
reason for doing so ; and I began to think that I had 
already secrets enough on hand. 

The leaf was much rubbed and worn, and it was not 
without considerable trouble that I deciphered the follow- 
ing (omitting the unintelligible signs) : 

“Oct. 30 (Nov. 12) — talk with Y ; 20 — Jean. Con- 

sider. 

“ Nov. 15 — with J — H — hope. 

“ Dec. 1 — Told the C. No knowledge of S — there- 
fore safe. Uncertain of C. to Warsaw. Met J. as 

agreed. Further and further. 

“ Dec. 27 — All for naught ! All for naught ! 

“Jan. 19, ’63 — Sick. What is to be the end? Threats. 
No tidings of Y. Walked the streets all day. At night 
as usual. 

“ March 1 — News. The C. and H. left yesterday. No 
more to hope. Let it come, then ! ” 

These broken words warmed my imagination power- 
fully. Looking at- them in the light of- my conjecture, I 
was satisfied that “ Otto ” was involved in some crime, or 
dangerous secret, of which “Jean” was either the insti- 
gator or the accomplice. “ Y.,” or Count Kasincsky, — and 
I was more than ever inclined to connect the two, — also 
had his mystery, which might, or might not, be identical 
with the first. By comparing dates, I found that the en- 
try made December 27 was three days later than the date 
of the letter of “ Amelie de ” ; and the exclamation 


CAN A LIFE HIDE ITSELF? 1 5 1 

“ All for naught ! ” certainly referred to the disappoint- 
ment it contained. I now guessed the “ H.” in the sec- 
ond entry to mean “ Helmine.” The two last suggested 
a removal to Warsaw from the country. Here was a lit- 
tle more ground to. stand on ; but how should I ever get 
at the secret ? 

I took up the torn half of a note, which, after the first 
inspection, I had laid aside as a hopeless puzzle. A closer 
examination revealed several things which failed to impress 
me at the outset. It was written in a strong and rather 
awkward masculine hand ; several words were under- 
scored, two misspelled, and I felt — I scarcely knew why — 
that it was written in a spirit of mingled contempt and 
defiance. Let me give the fragment just as it lay before 
me : 


“ ARON ! 

t 

It is quite time 
be done. Who knows 
is not his home by this 
concern for the 
that they are well off, 
sian officers are 
cide at once, my 
risau , or I must 
t ten days delay 
money can be divi- 
der, and you may 
ever you please, 
untess goes, and she 
will know who you 


152 


TALES OF HOME. 


time, unless you carry 
friend or not 
decide, 
ann Helm.” 

Here, I felt sure, was the clue to much of the mystery. 
The first thing that struck me was the appearance of a new 
name. I looked at it again, ran through in my mind all pos- 
sible German names, and found that it could only be “Jo- 
hann,” — and in the same instant I recalled the frequent 
habit of the Prussian and Polish nobility of calling their 
German valets by French names.' This, then, was 
“Jean ! ” The address was certainly “ Baron,” and why 
thrice underscored, unless in contemptuous satire ? Light 
began to break upon the matter at last. “ Otto ” had 
been playing the part, perhaps assuming the name, of a 
nobleman, seduced to the deception by his passion for the 
Countess’ sister, Helmine. This explained the reference 
to “the papers,” and “ the secret,” and would account for 
the respectful and sympathetic tone of the Countess’ let- 
ter. But behind this there was certainly another secret, 
in which “ Y.” (whoever he might be) was concerned, and 
which related to money. The close of the note, which I 
filled out to read, “ Your friend or not, as you may de- 
cide,” conveyed a threat, and, to judge from the halves of 
lines immediately preceding it, the threat referred to the 
money, as well as to the betrayal of an assumed charac- 
ter. 

Here, just as the story began to appear in faint outline, 
my discoveries stopped for a while. I ascertained the 


CAN A LIFE HIDE ITSELF? 1 53 

breadth of the original note by a part of the middle-crease 
which remained, filled out the torn part with blank paper, 
completed the divided words in the same character of man- 
uscript, and endeavored to guess the remainder, but no 
clairvoyant power of divination came to my aid. I turn- 
ed over the letters again, remarking the neatness with 
which the addresses had been cut off, and wondering why 
the man had not destroyed the letters and other memor- 
anda entirely, if he wished to hide a possible crime. The 
fact that they were not destroyed showed the hold which 
his past life had had upon him even to his dying hour. 
Weak and vain, as I had already suspected him to be, — 
wanting in all manly fibre, and of the very material which 
a keen, energetic villain would mould to his needs, — I felt 
that his love for his sister and for “ Helmine,” and other 
associations connected with his life in Germany and Po- 
land, had made him cling to these worn records. 

I know not what gave me the suspicion that he had 
not even found the heart to destroy the exscinded names ; 
perhaps the care with which they had been removed ; per- 
haps, in two instances, the circumstance of their taking 
words out of the body of the letters with them. But the 
suspicion came, and led to a re-examination of the leath- 
ern wallets. I could scarcely believe my eyes, when feel- 
ing something rustle faintly as I pressed the thin lining of 
an inner pocket, I drew forth three or four small pellets 
of paper, and unrolling them, found the lost addresses ! 
I fitted them to the vacant places, and found that the first 
letters of the sister in Breslau had been forwarded to 
7 * 


54 


TALES OF HOME. 


“ Otto Lindenschmidt,” while the letter to Poland was 
addressed “ Otto von Herisau.” 

I warmed with this success, which exactly tallied with 
the previous discoveries, and returned again to the Polish 
memoranda. The words “ [Rus]sian officers ” in “Jean’s ” 
note led me to notice that it had been written towards the 
close of the last insurrection in Poland — a circumstance 
which I immediately coupled with some things in the note 
and on the leaf of the journal. “ No tidings of Y ” might 
indicate that Count Kasincsky had been concerned in the 
rebellion, and had fled, or been taken prisoner. Had he 
left a large amount of funds in the hands of the supposed 
Otto von Herisau, which were drawn from time to time by 
orders, the form of which had been previously agreed 
upon ? Then, when he had disappeared, might it not have 
been the remaining funds which Jean urged Otto to divide 
with him, while the latter, misled and entangled in decep- 
tion rather than naturally dishonest, held back from s'uch 
a step ? I could hardly doubt so much, and it now re- 
quired but a slight effort of the imagination to complete 
the torn note. 

The next letter of the sister was addressed to Bremen. 
After having established so many particulars, I found it 
easily intelligible. “ I have done what I can,” she wrote. 
“ I put it in this letter ; it is all I have. But do not ask 
me for money again ; mother is ailing most of the time, 
and I have not yet dared to tell her all. I shall suffer 
great anxiety until I hear that the vessel has sailed. My 
mistress is very good ; she has given me an advance on my 


CAN A LIFE HIDE ITSELF? 1 55 

wages, or I could not have sent thee any thing. Mother 
thinks thou art still in Leipzig : why didst thou stay there 
so long ? but no difference ; thy money would have gone 
anyhow.” 

It was nevertheless singular that Otto should be with- 
out money, so soon after the appropriation of Count 
Kasincsky’s funds. If the “ 20 ” in the first memorandum 
on the leaf meant “ twenty thousand rubles,” as I conject- 
ured, and but four thousand two hundred were drawn by 
the Count previous to his flight or imprisonment, Otto’s 
half of the remainder would amount to nearly eight thou- 
sand rubles ; and it was, therefore, not easy to account for 
his delay in Leipzig, and his destitute condition. 

Before examining the fragments relating to the Ameri- 
can phase of his life, — which illustrated his previous his- 
tory only by occasional revelations of his moods and feel- 
ings, — I made one more effort to guess the cause of his 

f 

having assumed the name of “ Yon Herisau.” The ini- 
tials signed to the order for the ring (“ B. v. H.”) certainly 
stood for the same family name ; and the possession of 
papers belonging to one of the family was an additional 
evidence that Otto had either been in the service of, or 
was related to, some Von Herisau. Perhaps a sentence 
in one of the sister’s letters — “ Forget thy disappointment 
so far as / am concerned, for I never expected any thing ” 
— referred to something of the kind. On the whole, ser- 
vice seemed more likely than kinship ; but in that case 
the papers must have been stolen. 

I had endeavored, from the start, to keep my sympa- 


156 


TALES OF HOME. 


thies out of the investigation, lest they should lead me to 
misinterpret the broken evidence, and thus defeat my ob- 
ject. It must have been the Countess’ letter, and the 
brief, almost stenographic, signs of anxiety and unhappi- 
ness on the leaf of the journal, that first beguiled me into 
a commiseration, which the simple devotion and self-sac- 
rifice of the poor, toiling sister failed to neutralize. How- 
ever, I detected the feeling at this stage of the examina- 
tion, and turned to the American records, in order to get 
rid of it. 

The principal paper was the list of addresses of which 
I have spoken. I looked over it in vain, to find some in- 
dication of its purpose ; yet it had been carefully made out 
and much used. There was no name of a person upon it, 
— only numbers and streets, one hundred and thirty-eight 
in all. Finally, I took these, one by one, to ascertain if 
any of the houses were known to me, and found three, out 
of the whole number, to be the residences of persons whom 
I knew. One was a German gentleman, and the other 
two were Americans who had visited Germany. The rid- 
dle was read ! During a former residence in New York, 
I had for a time been quite overrun by destitute Germans, 
— men, apparently, of some culture, who represented them- 
selves as theological students, political refugees, or unfor- 
tunate clerks and secretaries, — soliciting assistance. I 
found that, when I gave to one, a dozen others came with- 
in the next fortnight: when I refused, the persecution 
ceased for about the same length of time. I became con- 
vinced, at last, that these persons were members of an or- 


CAN A LIFE HIDE ITSELF? 157 

ganized society of beggars, and the result proved it ; for 
when I made it an inviolable rule to give to no one who 
could not bring me an indorsement of his need by some 
person whom I knew, the annoyance ceased altogether. 

The meaning of the list of addresses was now plain. 
My nascent commiseration for the man was not only 
checked, but I was in danger of changing my role from 
that of culprit’s counsel to that of prosecuting attorney. 

When I took up again the fragment of the first draught 
of a letter commencing, “ Dog and villain ! ” and applied 
it to the words “Jean” or “Johann Helm,” the few lines 
which could be deciphered became full of meaning. “ Don’t 
think,” it began, “ that I have forgotten you, or the trick 
you played me ! If I was drunk or drugged the last night, 
I know how it happened, for all that. I left, but I shall 
go back. And if you make use of” (here some words 
were entirely obliterated) . . . . “ is true. He gave me 
the ring, and meant” .... This was all I could make 
out. The other papers showed only scattered memoran- 
da, of money, or appointments, or addresses, with the ex- 
ception of the diary in pencil. 

I read the letter attentively, and at first with very lit- 
tle idea of its meaning. Many of the words were abbre- 
viated, and there were some arbitrary signs. It ran over 
a period of about four months, terminating six weeks be- 
fore the man’s death. He had been wandering about 
the country during this period, sleeping in woods and 
barns, and living principally upon milk. The condition 
of his pulse and other physical functions was scrupulously 


TALES OF HOME. 


15*8 

set down, with an occasional remark of “ good ” or “ bad.” 
The conclusion was at last forced upon me that he had 
been endeavoring to commit suicide by a slow course of 
starvation and exposure. Either as the cause or the re- 
sult of this attempt, I read, in the final notes, signs of an 
aberration of mind. This also explained the singular de- 
meanor of the man when found, and his refusal to take 
medicine or nourishment. He had selected a long way 
to accomplish his purpose, but had reached the end at last. 

The confused material had now taken shape ; the dead 
man, despite his will, had confessed to me his name and 
the chief events of his life. It now remained — looking at 
each event as the result of a long chain of causes — to 
deduce from them the elements of his individual charac- 
ter, and then fill up the inevitable gaps in the story from 
the probabilities of the operation of those elements. This 
was not so much a mere venture as the reader may sup- 
pose, because the two actions of the mind test each other. 
If they cannot, thus working towards a point and back 
again, actually discover what was, they may at least fix 
upon a very probable might have been. 

A person accustomed to detective work would have 
obtained my little stock of facts with much less trouble, 
and would, almost instinctively, have filled the blanks as 
he went along. Being an apprentice in such matters, I 
had handled the materials awkwardly. I will not here 
retrace my own mental zigzags between character and 
act, but simply repeat the story as I finally settled and 
accepted it. 


CAN A LIFE HIDE ITSELF? 


159 


Otto Lindenschmidt was the child of poor parents in 
or near Breslau. His father died when he was young ; 
his mother earned a scanty subsistence as a washerwom- 
an ; his sister went into service. Being a bright, hand- 
some boy, he attracted the attention of a Baron von He- 
risau, an old, childless, eccentric gentleman, who took him 
first as page or attendant, intending to make him a su- 
perior valet de chambre. Gradually, however, the Baron 
fancied that he detected in the boy a capacity for better 
things ; his condescending feeling of protection had grown 
into an attachment for the handsome, amiable, grateful 
young fellow, and he placed him in the gymnasium at 
Breslau, perhaps with the idea, now, of educating him to 
be an intelligent companion. 

The boy and his humble relatives, dazzled by this op- 
portunity, began secretly to consider the favor as almost 
equivalent to his adoption as a son. (The Baron had 

1 

once been married, but his wife and only child had long 
been dead.) The old man, of course, came to look upon 
the growing intelligence of the youth as his own work : 
vanity and affection became inextricably blended in his 
heart, and when the cursus was over, he took him home 
as the companion of his lonely life. After two or three 
years, during which the young man was acquiring habits 
of idleness and indulgence, supposing his future secure, 
the Baron died, — perhaps too suddenly to make full 
provision for him, perhaps after having kept up the ap- 
pearance of wealth on a life-annuity, but, in any case, 
leaving very little, if any, property to Otto. In his dis- 


i6o 


TALES OF HOME. 


appointment, the latter retained certain family papers 
which the Baron had intrusted to his keeping. The ring 
was a gift, and he wore it in remembrance of his bene- 
factor. 

Wandering about, Micawber-like, in hopes that some- 
thing might turn up, he reached Posen, and there either 
met or heard of the Polish Count, Ladislas Kasincsky, 
who was seeking a tutor for his only son. His accom- 
plishments, and perhaps, also, a certain aristocratic grace 
of manner unconsciously caught from the Baron von 
Herisau, speedily won for him the favor of the Count and 
Countess Kasincsky, and emboldened him to hope for 

the hand of the Countess’ sister, Helmine , to whom 

he was no doubt sincerely attached. Here Johann Helm, 
or “ Jean,” a confidential servant of the Count, who looked 
upon the new tutor as a rival, yet adroitly flattered his 
vanity for the purpose of misleading and displacing him, 
appears upon the stage. “Jean” first detected Otto’s 
passion ; “Jean,” at an epicurean dinner, wormed out of 
Otto the secret of the Herisau documents, and perhaps 
suggested the part which the latter afterwards played. 

This “ Jean ” seemed to me to have been the evil 
agency in the miserable history which followed. After 
Helmine’s rejection of Otto’s suit, and the flight or cap- 
tivity of Count Kasincsky, leaving a large sum of money 
in Otto’s hands, it would be easy for “Jean,” by mingled 
persuasions and threats, to move the latter to flight, after 
dividing the money still remaining in his hands. After 
the theft, and the partition, which took place beyond the 


CAN A LIFE HIDE ITSELF? l6l 

Polish frontier, “Jean ” in turn, stole his accomplice’s 
share, together with the Von Herisau documents. 

Exile and a year’s experience of organized mendican- 
cy did the rest. Otto Lindenschmidt was one of those 
natures which possess no moral elasticity — which have 
neither the power nor the comprehension of atonement. 
The first real, unmitigated guilt — whether great or small 
— breaks them down hopelessly. He expected no chance 
of self-redemption, and he found none. His life in Amer- 
ica was so utterly dark and hopeless that the brightest 
moment in it must have been that which showed him the 
approach of death. 

My task was done. I had tracked this weak, vain, 
erring, hunted soul to its last refuge, and the knowledge 
bequeathed to me but a single duty. His sins were bal- 
anced by his temptations ; his vanity and weakness had 
revenged themselves ; and there only remained to tell 
the simple, faithful sister that her sacrifices were no longer 
required. I burned the evidences of guilt, despair and 
suicide, and sent the other papers, with a letter relating 
the time and circumstances of Otto Lindenschmidt’s 
death, to the civil authorities of Breslau, requesting that 
they might be placed in the hands of his sister Elise. 

This, I supposed, was the end of the history, so far as 
my connection with it was concerned. But one cannot 
track a secret with impunity ; the fatality connected with 
the act and the actor clings even to the knowledge of the 
act. I had opened my door a little, in order to look out 
upon the life of another, but in doing so 3 ghpst had en- 


TALES OF HOME. 


162 

tered in, and was not to be dislodged until I had done its 
service. 

In the summer of 1867 I was in Germany, and during 
a brief journey of idlesse and enjoyment came to the 
lovely little watering-place of Liebenstein, on the southern 
slope of the Thuringian Forest. I had no expectation or 
even desire of making new acquaintances among the gay 
company who took their afternoon coffee under the noble 
linden trees on the terrace ; but, within the first hour of 
my after-dinner leisure, I was greeted by an old friend, 
an author, from Coburg, and carried away, in my own de- 
spite, to a group of his associates. My friend and his 
friends had already been at the place a fortnight, and knew 
the very tint and texture of its gossip. While I sipped 
my coffee, I listened to them with one ear, and to Wag- 
ner’s overture to “ Lohengrin ” with the other ; and I 
should soon have been wholly occupied with the fine or- 
chestra had I not been caught and startled by an unex- 
pected name. 

“ Have you noticed,” some one asked, " how much at- 
tention the Baron von Herisau is paying her ? ” 

I whirled round and exclaimed, in a breath, “ The 
Baron von Herisau ! ” 

“ Yes,” said my friend ; “ do you know him ? ” 

I was glad that three crashing, tremendous chords 
came from the orchestra just then, giving me time to col- 
lect myself before I replied : “ I am not sure whether it 
is the same person : I knew a Baron von Herisau long 
ago : how old is the gentleman here ? ” 


CAN A LIFE HIDE ITSELF? 1 63 

“ About thirty-five, I should think,” my friend an- 
swered. 

“ Ah, then it .can’t be the same person,” said I : “ still, 
if he should happen to pass near us, will you point him 
out to me ? ” 

It was an hour later, and we were all hotly discussing 
the question of Lessing’s obligations to English literature, 
when one of the gentlemen at the table said: “There 
goes the Baron von Herisau : is it perhaps your friend, 
sir?” 

I turned and saw a tall man, with prominent nose, 
opaque black eyes, and black mustache, walking beside 
a pretty, insipid girl. Behind the pair went an elderly 
couple, overdressed and snobbish in appearance. A car- 
riage, with servants in livery, waited in the open space 
below the terrace, and having received the two couples, 
whirled swiftly away towards Altenstein. 

Had I been mole of a philosopher I should have 
wasted no second thought on the Baron von Herisau. 
But the Nemesis of the knowledge which I had throttled 
poor Otto Lindenschmidt’s ghost to obtain had come 
upon me at last, and there was no rest for me until I had 
discovered who and what was the Baron. The list of 
guests which the landlord gave me whetted my curiosity 
to a painful degree ; for on it I found the entry : “ Aug. 
15. — Otto v. Herisau, Rentier , East Prussia.” 

It was quite dark when the carriage returned. I 
watched the company into the supper-room, and then, 
whisking in behind them, secured a place at the nearest 


164 


TALES OF HOME. 


table. I had an hour of quiet, stealthy observation before 
my Coburg friend discovered me, and by that time I was 
glad of his company and had need of his confidence. 
But, before making use of him in the second capacity, 1 
desired to make the acquaintance of the adjoining partie 
carree. He had bowed to them familiarly in passing, and 
when the old gentleman said, “ Will you not join us, Herr 

? ” I answered my friend’s interrogative glance with 

a decided affirmative, and we moved to the other table. 

My seat was beside the Baron von Herisau, with whom 
I exchanged the usual commonplaces after an introduction. 
His manner was cold and taciturn, I thought, and there 
was something forced in the smile which accompanied his 
replies to the remarks of the coarse old lady, who con- 
tinually referred to the “ Herr Baron ” as authority upon 
every possible subject. I noticed, however, that he cast 
a sudden, sharp glance at me, when I was presented to 
the company as an American. 

The man’s neighborhood disturbed me. I was obliged 
to let the conversation run in the channels already se- 
lected, and stupid enough I found them. I was consider- 
ing whether I should not give a signal to my friend and 
withdraw, when the Baron stretched his hand across the 
table for a bottle of Affenthaler, and I caught sight of a 
massive gold ring on his middle finger. Instantly I re- 
membered the ring which “ B. v. H.” had given to Otto 
Lindenschmidt, and I said to myself, “ That is it ! ” The 
inference followed like lightning that it was “Johann 
Helm ” who sat beside me, and not a Baron von Herisau ! 


CAN A LIFE HIDE ITSELF? 1 65 

That evening my friend and I had a long, absorbing 
conversation in my room. I told him the whole story, 
which came back vividly to memory, and learned, in re- 
turn, that the reputed Baron was supposed to be wealthy, 
that the old gentleman was a Bremen merchant or banker, 
known to be rich, that neither was considered by those 
who had met them to be particularly intelligent or refined, 
and that the wooing of the daughter had already become 
so marked as to be a general subject of gossip. My 
friend was inclined to think my conjecture correct, and 
willingly co-operated with me in a plan to test the matter. 
We had no considerable sympathy with the snobbish par- 
ents, whose servility to a title was so apparent ; but the 
daughter seemed to be an innocent and amiable creature, 
however silly, and we determined to spare her the shame 
of an open scandal. 

If our scheme should seem a little melodramatic, it 
must not be forgotten ‘that my friend was an author. The 
next morning, as the Baron came up the terrace after his 
visit to the spring, I stepped forward and greeted him po- 
litely, after which I said : “ I see by the strangers’ list that 
you are from East Prussia, Baron ; have you ever been in 
Poland ? ” At that moment, a voice behind him called 
out rather sharply, “ Jean ! ” The Baron started, turned 
round and then back to me, and all his art could not pre- 
vent the blood from rushing to his face. I made, as if by 
accident, a gesture with my hand, indicating success, and 
went a step further. 

“ Because,” said I, “ I am thinking of making a visit 


TALES OF HOME. 


1 66 

to Cracow and Warsaw 7 , and should be glad of any infor- 
mation — ” 

“Certainly!” he interrupted me, “and I should be 
very glad to give it, if I had ever visited Poland.” 

“At least,” I continued, “you can advise me upon 
one point ; but excuse me, shall we not sit down a mo- 
ment yonder ? As my question relates to money, I should 
not wish to be overheard.” 

I pointed out a retired spot, just before reaching 
which we were joined by my friend, who suddenly stepped 
cut from behind a clump of lilacs. The Baron and he 
saluted each other. 

“ Now,” said I to the former, “ I can ask your advice, 
Mr. Johann Helm ! « 

He was not an adept, after all. His astonishment 
and confusion were brief, to be sure, but they betrayed 
him so completely that his after-impulse to assume a 
1 aughty, offensive air only made us smile. 

“ If I had a message to you from Otto Lindenschmidt, 
what then ? ” I asked. 

He turned pale, and presently stammered out, “ He — 
he is dead ! ” 

“ Now,” said my friend, “ it is quite time to drop the 
mask before us. You see we know you, and we know 
your history. Not from Otto Lindenschmidt alone; 
Count Ladislas Kasincsky — ” 

“ What ! Has he come back from Siberia ? ” exclaim- 
ed Johann Helm. His face expressed abject terror ; 
I think he would have fallen upon his knees before 


CAN A LIFE HIDE ITSELF? 


167 


us if he had not somehow felt, by a rascal’s instinct, 
that we had no personal wrongs to redress in unmasking 
him. 

Our object, however, was to ascertain through him the 
complete facts of Otto Lindenschmidt’s history, and then 
to banish him from Liebenstein. We allowed him to 
suppose for awhile that we were acting under the author- 
ity of persons concerned, in order to make the best possi- 
ble use of his demoralized mood, for we knew it would 
not last long. 

My guesses were very nearly correct. Otto Linden- 
schmidt had been educated by an old Baron, Bernhard 
von Herisau, on account of his resemblance in person to 
a dead son, whose name had also been Otto. He could 
not have adopted the plebeian youth, at least to the ex- 
tent of giving him an old and haughty name, but this the 
latter nevertheless expected, up to the time of the Baron’s 
death. He had inherited a little property from his bene- 
factor, but soon ran through it. “ He was a light-headed 
fellow,” said Johann Helm, “but he knew how to get the 
confidence of the old Junkers . If he hadn’t been so 
cowardly and fidgety, he might have made » himself a 
career.” 

The Polish episode differed so little from my inter- 
pretation that I need not repeat Helm’s version. He 
denied having stolen Otto’s share of the money, but could 
not help admitting his possession of the Von Herisau 
papers, among which were the certificates of birth and 
baptism of the old Baron’s son, Otto. It seems that he 


TALES OF HOME. 


1 68 

had been fearful of Lindenschmidt’s return from America, 
for he managed to communicate with his sister in Breslau, 
and in this way learned the former’s death. Not until 
then had he dared to assume his present disguise. 

We let him go, after exacting a solemn pledge that he 
would betake himself at once to Hamburg, and there 
ship for Australia. (I judged that America was already am- 
ply supplied with individuals of his class.) The sudden de- 
parture of the Baron von Herisau was a two days’ wonder 
at Liebenstein ; but besides ourselves, only the Bremen 
banker knew the secret. He also left, two days after- 
wards, with his wife and daughter — their cases, it was re- 
ported, requiring Kissingen. 

Otto Lindenschmidt’s life, therefore, could not hide 
itself. Can any life ? 


TWIN-LOVE. 


HEN John Vincent, after wait- 
ing twelve. years, married Phebe 
Etheridge, the whole neighbor- 
hood experienced that sense of 
relief and satisfaction which fol- 
lows the triumph of the right. 
Not that the fact of a true love is ever generally recog- 
nized and respected when it is first discovered; for 
there is a perverse * quality in American human nature 
which will not accept the existence of any fine, un- 
selfish passion, until it has been tested and established 
beyond peradventure. There were two views of the case 
when John Vincent’s love for Phebe, and old Reuben 
Etheridge’s hard prohibition of the match, first became 
known to the community. The girls and boys, and some 
of the matrons, ranged themselves at once on the side of 
the lovers, but a large majority of the older men and a 
few of the younger, supported the tyrannical father. 

Reuben Etheridge was rich, and, in addition to what 
his daughter would naturally inherit from him, she already 
possessed more than her lover, at the time of their be- 
8 



TALES OF HOME. 


170 

trothal. This in the eyes of one class was a sufficient rea- 
son for the father’s hostility. When low natures live (as they 
almost invariably do) wholly in the present, they neither 
take tenderness from the past nor warning from the pos- 
sibilities of the future. It is the exceptional men and 
women who remember their youth. So, these lovers re-' 
ceived a nearly equal amount of sympathy and condem- 
nation ; and only slowly, partly through their quiet fidel- 
ity and patience, and partly through the improvement in 
John Vincent’s worldly circumstances, was the balance 
changed. Old Reuben remained an unflinching despot 
to the last : if any relenting softness touched his heart, he 
sternly concealed it ; and such inference as could be 
drawn from the fact that he, certainly knowing what would 
follow his death, bequeathed his daughter her proper 
share of his goods, was all that could be taken for consent. 

They were married : John, a grave man in middle 
age, weather-beaten and worn by years of hard work and 
self-denial, yet not beyond the restoration of a milder 
second youth ; and Phebe a sad, weary woman, whose 
warmth of longing had been exhausted, from whom youth 
and its uncalculating surrenders of hope and feeling had 
gone forever. They began their wedded life under the 
shadow of the death out of which it grew ; and when, 
after a ceremony in which neither bridesmaid nor grooms- 
man stood by their side, they united their divided homes, 
it seemed to their neighbors that a separated husband and 
wife had come together again, not that the relation was 
new to either. 


TWIN-LOVE. 


171 

John Vincent loved his wife with the tenderness of an 
innocent man, but all his tenderness could not avail to 
lift the weight of settled melancholy which had gathered 
upon her. Disappointment, waiting, yearning, indulgence 
in long lament and self-pity, the morbid cultivation of un- 
happy fancies — all this had wrought its work upon her, 
and it was too late to effect a cure. In the night she 
awoke to weep at his side, because of the years when she 
had awakened to weep alone ; by day she kept up her old 
habit of foreboding, although the evening steadily refuted 
the morning ; and there were times when, without any 
apparent cause, she would fall into a dark, despairing mood 
which her husband’s greatest care and cunning could only 
slowly dispel. 

Two or three years passed, and new life came to the 
Vincent farm. One day, between midnight and dawn, the 
family pair was doubled ; the cry of twin sons was heard 
in the hushed house. The father restrained his happy 
wonder in his concern for the imperilled life of the moth- 
er ; he guessed that she had anticipated death, and she 
now hung by a thread so slight that her simple will might 
snap it. But her will, fortunately, was as faint as her con- 
sciousness; she gradually drifted out of danger, taking 
her returning strength with a passive acquiescence rather 
than with joy. She was hardly paler than her wont, but 
the lurking shadow seemed to have vanished from her 
eyes, and John Vincent felt that her features had assumed 
a new expression, the faintly perceptible stamp of some 
spiritual change. 


1/2 


TALES OF HOME. 


It was a happy day for him when, propped against 
his breast and gently held by his warm, strong arm, the 
twin boys were first brought to be laid upon her lap. 
Two staring, dark-faced creatures, with restless fists and 
feet, they were alike in every least feature of their grotes- 
que animality. Phebe placed a hand under the head of 
each, and looked at them for a long time in silence. 

“ Why is this ? ” she said, at last, taking hold of a 
narrow pink ribbon, which was tied around the wrist of 
one. 

“ He’s the oldest, sure,” the nurse answered. “ Only 
by fifteen minutes or so, but it generally makes a differ- 
ence when twins come to be named ; and you may see 
with your own eyes that there’s no telling of ’em apart 
otherways.” 

“ Take off the ribbon, then,” said Phebe quietly ; “ 1 
know them.” 

“ Why, ma’am, it’s always done, where they’re so like ! 
And I’ll never be able to tell which is which; for they 
sleep and wake and feed by the same clock. And you 
might mistake, after all, in giving ’em names — ” 

“There is no oldest or youngest, John; they are two 
and yet one : this is mine, and this is yours.” 

“I see no difference at all, Phebe,” said John; “and 
how can we divide them ? ” 

“ We will not divide,” she answered ; “ I only meant 
it as a sign.” 

She smiled, for the first time in many days. He was 
glad of heart, but did not understand her. “ What shall 


TWIN-LOVE. 


1 73 


we call them ? ” he asked. “ Elias and Reuben, after our 
fathers ? ” 

“No, John; their names must be David and Jona- 
than.” 

And so they were called. And they grew, not less, 
but more alike, in passing through the stages of baby- 
hood. The ribbon of the older one had been removed, 
and the nurse would have been distracted, but for Phebe’s 
almost miraculous instinct. The former comforted her- 
self with the hope that teething would bring a variation to 
the two identical mouths; but no! they teethed as one 
child. John, after desperate attempts, which always 
failed in spite of the headaches they gave him, postponed 
the idea of distinguishing one from the other, until they 
should be old enough to develop some dissimilarity of 
speech, or gait, or habit. All trouble might have been 
avoided, had Phebe consented to the least variation in 
their dresses ; but herein she was mildly immovable. 

“ Not yet,” was her set reply to her husband ; and one 
day, when he manifested a little annoyance at her persist- 
ence, she turned to him, holding a child on each knee, and 
said with a gravity which silenced him thenceforth : 
“John, can you not see that our burden has passed into 
them ? Is there no meaning in this — that two children 
who are one in body and face and nature, should be given 
to us at our time of life, after such long disappointment 
and trouble ? Our lives were held apart ; theirs were uni- 
ted before they were’ born, and I dare not turn them in 
different directions. Perhaps I do not know all that the 


74 


TALES OF HOME. 


Lord intended to say to us, in sending them ; but His hand 
is here ! ” 

“ I was only thinking of their good,” John meekly an- 
swered. “ If they are spared to grow up, there must be 
some way of knowing one from the other.” 

“ They will not need it, and I, too, think only of them. 
They have taken the cross from my heart, and I will lay 
none on theirs. I am reconciled to my life through them, 
John ; you have been very patient and good with me, and 
I will yield to you in all things but in this. I do not think 
I shall live to see them as men grown ; yet, while we are 
together, I feel clearly what it is right to do. Can you 
not, just once, have a little faith without knowledge, 
John?” 

“ I’ll try, Phebe,” he said. “ Any way, I’ll grant that 
the boys belong to you more than to me.” 

Phebe Vincent’s character had verily changed. Her 
attacks of semi-hysterical despondency never returned ; 
her gloomy prophecies ceased. She was still grave, and 
the trouble of so many years never wholly vanished from 
her face ; but she performed every duty of her life with at 
least a quiet willingness, and her home became the abode 
of peace ; for passive content wears longer than demon- 
strative happiness. 

David and Jonathan grew as one boy : the taste and 
temper of one was repeated in the other, even as the voice 
and features. Sleeping or waking, grieved or joyous, well 
or ill, they lived a single life, and it seemed so natural for 
one to answer to the other’s name, that they probably 


TWIN-LOVE. 


7 5 


would have themselves confused their own identities, but 
for their mother’s unerring knowledge. Perhaps uncon- 
sciously guided by her, perhaps through the voluntary ac- 
tion of their own natures, each quietly took the other’s 
place when called upon, even to the sharing of praise or 
blame at school, the friendships and quarrels of the play- 
ground. They were healthy and happy lads, and John 
Vincent was accustomed to say to his neighbors, “ They’re 
no more trouble than one would be ; and yet they’re four 
hands instead of two.” 

Phebe died when they were fourteen, saying to them, 
with almost her latest breath, “ Be one, always ! ” Before 
her husband could decide whether to change her plan of 
domestic education, they were passing out of boyhood, 
changing in voice, stature, and character with a continued 
likeness which bewildered and almost terrified him. He 
procured garments of different colors, but they were ac- 
customed to wear each article in common, and the result 
was only a mixture of tints for both. They were sent to 
different schools, to be returned the next day, equally pale, 
suffering, and incapable of study. Whatever device was 
employed, they evaded it by a mutual instinct which ren- 
dered all external measures unavailing. To John Vin- 
cent’s mind their resemblance was an accidental misfor- 
tune, which had been confirmed through their mother’s 
fancy. He felt that they were bound by some deep, mys- 
terious tie, which, inasmuch as it might interfere with all 
practical aspects of life, ought to be gradually weakened. 
Two bodies, to him, implied two distinct men, and it was 


176 


TALES OF HOME. 


wrong to permit a mutual dependence which prevented 
either from exercising his own separate will and judgment. 

But, while he was planning and pondering, the boys 
became young men, and he was an old man. Old, and 
prematurely broken ; for he had worked much, borne 
much, and his large frame held only a moderate measure 
of vital force. A great weariness fell upon him, and his 
powers began to give way, at first slowly, but then with ac- 
celerated failure. He saw the end coming, long before 
his sons suspected it ; his doubt, for their sakes, was the 
only thing which made it unwelcome. It was “ upon his 
mind ” (as his Quaker neighbors would say) to speak to 
them of the future, and at last the proper moment came. 

It was a stormy November evening. Wind and rain 
whirled and drove among the trees outside, but the sitting- 
room of the old farm-house was bright and warm. Da- 
vid and Jonathan, at the table, with their arms over each 
other’s backs and their brown locks mixed together, read 
from the same book : their father sat in the ancient rock- 
ing-chair before the fire, with his feet upon a stool. The 
housekeeper and hired man had gone to bed, and all was 
still in the house. 

John waited until he heard the volume closed, and then 
spoke. 

“ Boys,” he said, “ let me have a bit of talk with you. 
I don’t seem to get over my ailments rightly, — never will, 
maybe. A man must think of things while there’s time, 
and say them when they have to be said. I don’t know as 
there’s any particular hurry in my case ; only, we never 


TWIN-LOVE. 


177 


can tell, from one day to another. When I die, every 
thing will belong to you two, share and share alike, either 
to buy another farm with the money out, or divide this, : I 
won’t tie you up in any way. But two of you will need 
two farms for two families ; for you won’t have to wait 
twelve years, like your mother and me.” 

“ We don’t want another farm, father ! ” said David 
and Jonathan together. 

“ I know you don’t think so, now. A wife seemed far 
enough off from me when I was your age. You’ve always 
been satisfied to be with each other, but that can’t last. 
It was partly your mother’s notion ; I remember her say- 
ing that our burden had passed into you. I never quite 
understood what she meant, but I suppose it must rather 
be the opposite of what we had to bear.” 

The twins listened with breathless attention while their 
father, suddenly stirred by the past, told them the story of 
his long betrothal. 

“ And now,” he exclaimed, in conclusion, “ it may be 
putting wild ideas into your two heads, but I must say it ! 
That was where I did wrong — wrong to her and to me,— 
in waiting ! I had no right to spoil the best of our lives ; 
I ought to have gone boldly, in broad day, to her father’s 
house, taken her by the hand, and led her forth to be my 
wife. Boys, if either of you comes to love a woman truly, 
and she to love you, and there is no reason why God ( I 
don’t say man) should put you asunder, do as I ought to 
have done, not as I did ! And, maybe, this advice is the 
best legacy I can leave you.” 


1 78 


TALES OF HOME. 


“ But, father,” said David, speaking for both, u we 
have never thought of marrying.” 

“ Likely enough,” their father answered ; “ we hardly 
ever think of what surely comes. But to me, looking 
back, it’s plain. And this is the reason why I want you 
to make me a promise, and as solemn as if I was on my 
death-bed. Maybe I shall be, soon.” 

Tears gathered in the eyes of the twins. “ What is it, 
father ? ” they both said. 

“ Nothing at all to any other two boys, but I don’t 
know how you’ll take it. What if I was to ask you to live 
apart for a while ? ” 

“ Oh father ! ” both cried. They leaned together, cheek 
pressing cheek, and hand clasping hand, growing white 
and trembling. John Vincent, gazing into the fire, did 
not see their faces, or his purpose might have been shaken. 

“ I don’t say now,” he went on. “ After a while, when 
— well, when I’m dead. And I only mean a beginning, to 
help you toward what has to be. Only a month ; I don’t 
want to seem hard to you ; but that’s little, in all con- 
science. Give me your word : say, 1 For mother’s sake ! ’ ” 

There was a long pause. Then David and Jonathan 
said, in low, faltering voices, “ For mother’s sake, I prom- 
ise.” 

“ Remember that you were only boys to her. She 
might have made all this seem easier, for women have rea- 
sons for things no man can answer. Mind, within a year 
after I’m gone ! ” 

He rose and tottered out of the room. 


TWIN-LOVE. 


179 


The twins looked at each other : David said, “ Must 
we ? ” and Jonathan, “ How can we ? ” Then they both 
thought, “ It may be a long while yet.” Here was a pres- 
ent comfort, and each seemed to hold it firmly in holding 
the hand of the other, as they fell asleep side by side. 

The trial was nearer than they imagined. Their father 
died before the winter was over ; the farm and other 
property was theirs, and they might have allowed life to 
solve its mysteries as it rolled onwards, but for their prom- 
ise to the dead. This must be fulfilled, and then — one 
thing was certain ; they would never again separate. 

“ The sooner the better,” said David. “ It shall be 
the visit to our uncle and cousins in Indiana. You will 
come with me as far as Harrisburg ; it may be easier to 
part there than here. And our new neighbors, the Brad- 
leys, will want your help for a day or two, after getting 
home.” * 

“It is less than death,” Jonathan answered, “ and 
why should it seem to be more ? We must think of 
father and mother, and all those twelve years ; now I 
know what the burden w r as.” 

“ And we have never really borne any part of it ! 
Father must have been right in forcing us to promise.” 

Every day the discussion was resumed, and always 
with the same termination. Familiarity with the inevita- 
ble step gave them increase of courage ; yet, when the 
moment had come and gone, when, speeding on opposite 
trains, the hills and valleys multiplied between them with 
terrible velocity, a pang like death cut to the heart of each, 
and the divided life became a chill, oppressive dream. 


i8o 


TALES OF HOME. 


During the separation no letters passed between them. 
When the neighbors asked Jonathan for news of his broth- 
er, he always replied, “ He is well,” and avoided further 
speech with such evidence of pain that they spared him. 
An hour before the month drew to an end, he walked 
forth alone, taking the road to the nearest railway station. 
A stranger who passed him at the entrance of a thick 
wood, three miles from home, was thunderstruck on meet- 
ing the same person shortly after, entering the wood from 
the other side ; but the farmers in the near fields saw two 
figures issuing from the shade, hand in hand. 

Each knew the other’s month, before they slept, and 
the last thing Jonathan said, with his head on David’s 
shoulder, was, “ You must know our neighbors, the Brad- 
leys, and especially Ruth.” In the morning, as they 
dressed, taking each other’s garments at random, as of old, 
Jonathan again said, “ I have never seen a girl that I like 
so well as Ruth Bradley. Do you remember what father 
said about loving and marrying ? It comes into my mind 
whenever I see Ruth ; but she has no sister.” 

“ But we need not both marry,” David replied, “that 
might part us, and this will not. It is for always now.” 

“ For always, David.” 

Two or three days later Jonathan said, as he started 
on an errand to the village : “ I shall stop at the Bradleys 
this evening, so you must walk across and meet me there.” 

When David approached the house, a slender, girlish 
figure, with her back towards him, was stooping over a 
bush of great crimson roses, cautiously clipping a blossom 


TWIN-LOVE. 


1 8 1 


here and there. At the click of the gate-latch she started 
and turned towards him. Her light gingham bonnet, fall- 
ing back, disclosed a long oval face, fair and delicate, 
sweet brown eyes, and brown hair laid smoothly over the 
temples. A soft flush rose suddenly to her cheeks, and he 
felt that his own were burning. 

“ Oh Jonathan ! ” she exclaimed, transferring the roses 
to her left hand, and extending her right, as she came for- 
ward. 

He was too accustomed to the name to recognize her 
mistake at once, and the word “ Ruth ! ” came naturally 
to his lips. 

“ I should know your brother David has come,” she 
then said; “even if I had not heard so. You look so 
bright. How glad I am ! ” 

“ Is he not here ? ” David asked. 

“ No ; but there he is now, surely ! ” She turned to- 
wards the lane, where Jonathan was dismounting. “Why, 
it is yourself over again, Jonathan ! ” 

As they approached, a glance passed between the 
twins, and a secret transfer of the riding-whip to David 
set their identity right with Ruth, whose manner toward 
the latter innocently became shy with all its friendliness, 
while her frank, familiar speech was given to Jonathan, as 
was fitting. But David also took the latter to himself, and 
when they left, Ruth had apparently forgotten that there 
was any difference in the length of their acquaintance. 

On their way homewards David said : “ Father was 
right. We must marry, like others, and Ruth is the wife 


1 82 


TALES OF HOME. 


for us, — I mean for you, Jonathan. Yes, we must learn to 
say mine and yours , after all, when we speak of her.” 

“ Even she cannot separate us, it seems,” Jonathan 
answered. “ We must give her some sign, and that will 
also be a sign for others. It will seem strange to divide 
ourselves ; we can never learn it properly ; rather let us 
not think of marriage.” 

“ We cannot help thinking of it ; she stands in moth- 
er’s place now, as we in father’s.” 

Then both became silent and thoughtful. They felt 
that something threatened to disturb what seemed to be 
the only possible life for them, yet were unable to distin- 
guish its features, and therefore powerless to resist it. The 
same instinct which had been born of their wonderful 
spiritual likeness told them that Ruth Bradley already 
loved Jonathan : the duty was established, and they must 
conform their lives to it. There was, however, this slight 
difference between their natures — that David was gener- 
ally the first to utter the thought which came to the minds 
of both. So when he said, “ We shall learn what to do 
when the need comes,” it was a postponement of all fore- 
boding. They drifted contentedly towards the coming 
change. 

The days went by, and their visits to Ruth Bradley 
were continued. Sometimes Jonathan went alone, but 
they were usually together, and the tie which united the 
three became dearer and sweeter as it was more closely 
drawn. Ruth learned to distinguish between the two when 
they were before her : at least she said so, and they were 


TWIN-LOVE. 


183 


willing to believe it. But she was hardly aware how nearly 
alike was the happy warmth in her bosom produced by 
either pair of dark gray eyes and the soft half-smile which 
played around either mouth. To them she seemed to be 
drawn within the mystic circle which separated them from 
others — she, alone ; and they no longer imagined a life in 
which she should not share. 

Then the inevitable step was taken. Jonathan de- 
clared his love, and was answered. Alas ! he almost for- 
got David that late summer evening, as they sat in the 
moonlight, and over and over again assured each other 
how dear they had grown. He felt the trouble in David’s 
heart when they met. 

“ Ruth is ours, and I bring her kiss to you,” he said, 
pressing his lips to David’s ; but the arms flung around 
him trembled, and David whispered, “ Now the change 
begins.” * 

“ Oh, this cannot be our burden!” Jonathan cried, 
with all the rapture still warm in his heart. 

“ If it is, it will be light, or heavy, or none at all, as 
we shall bear it,” David answered, with a smile of infin- 
ite tenderness. 

For several days he allowed Jonathan to visit the 
Bradley farm alone, saying that it must be so on Ruth’s 
account. Her love, he declared, must give her the fine 
instinct which only their mother had ever possessed, and 
he must allow it time to be confirmed. Jonathan, how- 
ever, insisted that Ruth already possessed it ; that she was 
beginning to wonder at his absence, and to fear that she 


TALES OF HOME. 


184 

would not be entirely welcome to the home which must 
always be equally his. 

David yielded at once. 

u You must go alone,” said Jonathan, “ to satisfy 
yourself that she knows us at last.” 

Ruth came forth from the house as he drew near. 
Her face beamed ; she laid her hands upon his shoulders 
and kissed him. “Now you cannot doubt me, Ruth!” 
he said, gently. 

“ Doubt you, Jonathan ! ” she exclaimed with a fond 
reproach in her eyes. “ But you look troubled ; is any 
thing the matter ? ” 

“ I was thinking of my brother,” said David, in a low 
tone. 

“ Tell me what it is,” she said, drawing him into the 
little arbor of woodbine near the gate. They took seats 
side by side on the rustic bench. “He thinks I may 
pome between you : is it not that ? ” she asked. Only 
one thing was clear to David’s mind — that she would 
surely speak more frankly and freely of him to the sup- 
posed Jonathan than to his real self. This once he 
would permit the illusion. 

“ Not more than must be,” he answered. “ He knew 
all from the very beginning. But we have been like one 
person in two bodies, and any change seems to divide 
us.” 

“ I feel as you do,” said Ruth. “ I would never con- 
sent to be your wife, if I could really divide you. I love 
you both too well for that.” 


TWIN-LOVE. 185 

“ Do you love me ? ” he asked, entirely forgetting his 
representative part. 

Again the reproachful look, which faded away as she 
met his eyes. She fell upon his breast, and gave him 
kisses which were answered with equal tenderness. Sud- 
denly he covered his face with his hands, and burst into 
a passion of tears. 

“ Jonathan! Oh Jonathan ! ” she cried, weeping with 
alarm and sympathetic pain. 

It was long before he could speak ; but at last, turn- 
ing away his head, he faltered, “ I am David ! ” 

There was a long silence. 

When he looked up she was sitting with her hands 
rigidly clasped in her lap : her face was very pale. 

“There it is, Ruth” he said ; “we are one heart and 
one soul. Could he love, and not I ? You cannot decide 
between us, for one, is the other. If I had known you 
first, Jonathan would be now in my place. What fol- 
lows, then ? ” 

“No marriage,” she whispered. 

“ No ! ” he answered ; “ we brothers must learn to be 
two men instead of one. You will partly take my place 
with Jonathan ; I must live with half my life, unless I 
can find, somewhere in the world, your other half.” 

“ I cannot part you, David ! ” 

“ Something stronger than you or me parts us, Ruth. 
If it were death, we should bow to God’s will : well, it 
can no more be got away frofn than death pr judgment. 
Say no more : the pattern of all this was drawn long be- 


i86 


TALES OF HOME. 


fore we were born, and we cannot do any thing but work 
it out.” 

He rose and stood before her. “ Remember this, 
Ruth,” he said ; “ it is no blame in us to love each other. 
Jonathan will see the truth in my face when we meet, 
and I speak for him also. You will not see me again un- 
til your wedding-day, and then no more afterwards — but, 
yes ! once , in some far-off time, when you shall know me 
to be David, and still give me the kiss you gave to-day.” 

“ Ah, after death ! ” she thought : “ I have parted 
them forever.” She was about to rise, but fell upon the 
seat again, fainting. At the same moment Jonathan ap- 
peared at David’s side. 

No word was said. They bore her forth and sup- 
ported her between them until the fresh breeze had re- 
stored her to consciousness. Her first glance rested on 
the brother’s hands, clasping ; then, looking from one to 
the other, she saw that the cheeks of both were wet. 

“ Now, leave me,” she said, “but come to-morrow, 
Jonathan!” Even then she turned from one to the 
other, with a painful, touching uncertainty, and stretched 
out both hands to them in farewell. 

How that poor twin heart struggled with itself is 
only known to God. All human voices, and as they be- 
lieved, also the Divine Voice, commanded the division of 
their interwoven life. Submission would have seemed 
easier, could they have taken up equal and similar bur- 
dens ; but David was unable to deny that his pack was 
overweighted. For the first time, their thoughts began 
to diverge. 


TWIN-LOVE. 


18/ 


At last David said : “ For mother’s sake, Jonathan, 
as we promised. She always called you her child. And 
for Ruth’s sake, and father’s last advice : they all tell me 
what I must do.” 

It was like the struggle between will and desire, in 
the same nature, and none the less fierce or prolonged be- 
cause the softer quality foresaw its ultimate surrender. 
Long after he felt the step to be inevitable, Jonathan sought 
to postpone it, but he was borne by all combined influ- 
ences nearer and nearer to the time. 

And now the wedding-day came. David was to leave 
home the same evening, after the family dinner under his 
father’s roof. In the morning he said to Jonathan : “ I 
shall not write until I feel that I have become other than 
now, but I shall always be here, in you, as you will be in 
me, everywhere. Whenever you want me, I shall know 
it ; and I think I shaU know when to return.” 

The hearts of all the people went out towards them as 
they stood together in the little village church. Both 
were calm, but very pale and abstracted in their expres- 
sion, yet their marvellous likeness was still unchanged. 
Ruth’s eyes were cast down so they could not be seen ; 
she trembled visibly, and her voice was scarcely audible 
when she spoke the vow. It was only known in the 
neighborhood that David was going to make another jour- 
ney. The truth could hardly have been guessed by per- 
sons whose ideas follow the narrow round of their own 
experiences ; had it been, there would probably have been 
more condemnation than sympathy. But in a vague way 


1 88 


TALES OF HOME. 


the presence of some deeper element was felt — the fall- 
ing of a shadow, although the outstretched wing was un- 
seen. Far above them, and above the shadow, watched 
the Infinite Pity, which was not denied to three hearts 
that day. 

It was a long time, more than a year, and Ruth was 
lulling her first child on her bosom, before a letter came 
from David. He had wandered westwards, purchased 
some lands on the outer line of settlement, and appeared 
to be leading a wild and lonely life. “ I know now,” he 
wrote, “just how much there is to bear, and how to bear 
it. Strange men come between us, but you are not far off 
when I am alone on these plains. There is a place where 
I can always meet you, and I know that you have found it, 
— under the big ash-tree by the barn. I think I am nearly 
always there about sundown, and on moonshiny nights, 
because we are then nearest together ; and I never sleep 
without leaving you half my blanket. When I first begin 
to wake I always feel your breath, so we are never really 
parted for long. I do not know that I can change much ; 
it is not easy ; it is like making up your mind to have dif- 
ferent colored eyes and hair, and I can only get sunburnt 
and wear a full beard. But we are hardly as unhappy as 
we feared to be ; mother came the other night, in a dream, 
and took us on her knees. Oh, come to me, Jonathan, 
but for one day ! No, you will not find me j I am going 
across the Plains ! ” 

And Jonathan and Ruth? They loved each other 
tenderly ; no external trouble visited them ; their home 


TWIN-LOVE. 


189 


was peaceful and pure ; and yet, every room and stairway 
and chair was haunted by a sorrowful ghost. As a 
neighbor said after visiting them, “ There seemed to be 
something lost.” Ruth saw how constantly and how un- 
consciously Jonathan turned to see his own every feeling 
reflected in the missing eyes ; how his hand sought another, 
even while its fellow pressed hers ; how half- spoken words, 
day and night, died upon his lips, because they could not 
reach the twin-ear. She knew not how it came, but her 
own nature took upon itself the same habit. She felt that 
she received a less measure of love than she gave — not 
from Jonathan, in whose whole, warm, transparent heart 
no other woman had ever looked, but something of her 
own passed beyond him and never returned. To both 
their life was like one of those conjurer’s cups, seemingly 
filled with red wine, which is held from the lips by the 
false crystal hollow. • 

Neither spoke of this : neither dared to speak. The 
years dragged out their slow length, with rare and brief 
messages from David. Three children were in the house, 
and still peace and plenty laid their signs upon its lintels. 
But at last Ruth, who had been growing thinner and paler 
ever since the birth of her first boy, became seriously ill. 
Consumption was hers by inheritance, and it now mani- 
fested itself in a form which too surely foretold the result. 
After the physician had gone, leaving his fatal verdict 
behind him, she called to Jonathan, who, bewildered by 
his grief, sank down on his knees at her bedside and sob- 
bed upon her breast. 


190 


TALES OF HOME. 


“ Don’t grieve,” she said ; “ this is my share of the 
burden. If I have taken too much from you and David, 
now comes the atonement. Many things have grown 
clear to me. David was right when he said that there 
was no blame. But my time is even less than the doctor 
thinks : where is David ? Can you not bid him come ? ” 

“ I can only call him with my heart,” he answered. 
“ And will he hear me now, after nearly seven years ? ” 

“ Call, then ! ” she eagerly cried. “ Call with all the 
strength of your love for him and for me, and I believe 
he will hear you ! ” 

The sun was just setting. Jonathan went to the great 
ash-tree, behind the barn, fell upon his knees, and cov- 
ered his face, and the sense of an exceeding bitter cry 
filled his heart. All the suppressed and baffled longing, 
the want, the hunger, the unremitting pain of years, came 
upon him and were crowded into the single prayer, 
“ Come, David, or I die ! ” Before the twilight faded, 
while he was still kneeling, an arm came upon his shoul- 
der, and the faint touch of another cheek upon his own. 
It was hardly for the space of a thought, but he knew 
the sign. 

“ David will come ! ” he said to Ruth. 

From that day all was changed. The cloud of coming 
death which hung over the house was transmuted into 
fleecy gold. All the lost life came back to Jonathan’s 
face, all the unrestful sweetness of Ruth’s brightened into 
a serene beatitude. Months had passed since David had 
been heard from ; they knew not how to reach him with- 


TWIN-LOVE. 


I 9 I 

out many delays; yet neither dreamed of doubting his 
coming. 

Two weeks passed, three, and there was neither word 
nor sign. Jonathan and Ruth thought, “ He is near,” 
and one day a singular unrest fell upon the former. Ruth 
saw it, but said nothing until night came, when she sent 
Jonathan from her bedside with the words, “Go and 
meet him ? ” 

An hour afterwards she heard double steps on the 
stone walk in front of the house. They came slowly to 
the door ; it opened ; she heard them along the hall and 
ascending the stairs ; then the chamber-lamp showed her 
the two faces, bright with a single, unutterable joy. 

One brother paused at the foot of the bed ; the other 
drew near and bent over her. She clasped her thin 
hands around his neck, kissed him fondly, and cried, 
“ Dear, dear David ! ” 

“ Dear Ruth,” he said, “ I came as soon as I could. 
I was far away, among wild mountains, when I felt that 
Jonathan was calling me. I knew that I must return, 
never to leave you more, and there was still a little work 
to finish. Now we shall all live again ! ” 

“Yes,” said Jonathan, coming to her other side, “try 
to live, Ruth 1 ” 

Her voice came clear, strong, and full of authority. 
“ I do live, as never before. I shall take all my life with 
me when I go to wait for one soul, as I shall find it there ! 
Our love unites, not divides, from this hour ! ” 

The few weeks still left to her were a season of almost 


9 2 


TALES OF HOME. 


superhuman peace. She faded slowly and painlessly, 
taking the equal love of the twin-hearts, and giving an 
equal tenderness and gratitude. Then first she saw the 
mysterious need which united them, the fulness and joy 
wherewith each completed himself in the other. All the 
imperfect past was enlightened, and the end, even that 
now so near, was very good. 

Every afternoon they carried her down to a cushioned 
chair on the veranda, where she could enjoy the quiet of 
the sunny landscape, the presence of the brothers seated 
at her feet, and the sports of her children on the grass. 
Thus, one day, while David and Jonathan held her hands 
and waited for her to wake from a happy sleep, she went 
before them, and, ere they guessed the truth, she was 
waiting for their one soul in the undiscovered land. 

And Jonathan’s children, now growing into manhood 
and girlhood, also call David “ father.” The marks left 
by their divided lives have long since vanished from their 
faces ; the middle-aged men, whose hairs are turning gray, 
still walk hand in hand, still sleep upon the same pillow, 
still have their common wardrobe, as when they were 
boys. They talk of “our Ruth” with no sadness, for 
they believe that death will make them one, when, at the 
same moment, he summons both. And we who know 
them, to whom they have confided the touching mystery 
of their nature, believe so too. 


THE EXPERIENCES OF THE A. C. 


RIDGEPORT ! Change cars for the 
Naugatuck Railroad ! ” shouted the 
conductor of the New York and Bos- 
ton Express Train, on the evening 
of May 27th, 1858. Indeed, he does 
it every night (Sundays excepted), 
for that matter ; but as this story refers especially to Mr. 
J. Edward Johnson, who was a passenger on that train, 
on the aforesaid evening, I make special mention of the 
fact. Mr. Johnson, carpet-bag in hand, jumped upon the 
platform, entered the office, purchased a ticket for Water- 
bury, and was soon whirling in the Naugatuck train to- 
wards his destination. 

On reaching Waterbury, in the soft spring twilight, 
Mr. Johnson walked up and down in front of the station, 
curiously scanning the faces of the assembled crowd. 
Presently he noticed a gentleman who was performing 
the same operation upon the faces of the alighting pas- 
sengers. Throwing himself directly in the way of the 
latter, the two exchanged a steady gaze. 

“ Is your name Billings ? ” “ Is your name J ohnson ? ” 

9 



[.94 


TALES OF HOME. 


were simultaneous questions, followed by the simultane- 
ous exclamations — “ Ned ! ” “ Enos ! ” 

Then there was a crushing grasp of hands, repeated 
after a pause, in testimony of ancient friendship, and Mr. 
Billings, returning to practical life, asked — 

“ Is that all your baggage ? Come, I have a buggy 
here : Eunice has heard the whistle, and she’ll be impa- 
tient to welcome you.” 

The impatience of Eunice (Mrs. Billings, of course,) 
was not of long duration, for in five minutes thereafter 
she stood at the door of her husband’s chocolate-colored 
villa, receiving his friend. 

While these three persons are comfortably seated at the 
tea-table, enjoying their waffles, cold tongue, and canned 
peaches, and asking and answering questions helter-skelter 
in the delightful confusion of reunion after long separation, 
let us briefly inform the reader who and what they are. 

Mr. Enos Billings, then, was part owner of a manu- 
factory of metal buttons, forty years old, of middling 
height, ordinarily quiet and rather shy, but with a large 
share of latent warmth and enthusiasm in his nature. 
His hair was brown, slightly streaked with gray, his eyes 
a soft, dark hazel, forehead square, eyebrows straight, 
nose of no very marked character, and a mouth moder- 
ately full, with a tendency to twitch a little at the corners. 
His voice was undertoned, but mellow and agreeable. 

Mrs. Eunice Billings, of nearly equal age, was a good 
specimen of the wide-awake New-England woman. Her 
face had a piquant smartness of expression, which might 


THE EXPERIENCES OF THE A. C. 1 95 

have been refined into a sharp edge, but for her natural 
hearty good-humor. Her head was smoothly formed, her 
face a full oval, her hair and eyes blond and blue in a 
strong light, but brown and steel-gray at other times, and 
her complexion of that ripe fairness into which a ruddier 
color will sometimes fade. Her form, neither plump nor 
square, had yet a firm, elastic compactness, and her slight- 
est movement conveyed a certain impression of decision 
and self-reliance. 

As for J. Edward Johnson, it is enough to say that he 
was a tall, thin gentleman of forty-five, with an aquiline 
nose, narrow face, and military whiskers, which swooped 
upwards and met under his nose in a glossy black mus- 
tache. His complexion was dark, from the bronzing of 
fifteen summers in New Orleans. He was a member of a 
wholesale hardware firm in that city, and had now revisit- 
ed his native North’ for the first time since his departure. 
A year before, some letters relating to invoices of metal 
buttons signed/ 4 Foster, Kirkup, & Co., per Enos Billings,” 
had accidentally revealed to him the whereabouts of the 
old friend of his youth, with whom we now find him dom- 
iciled. The first thing he did, after attending to some 
necessary business matters in New York, was to take the 
train for Waterbury. 

“ Enos,” said he, as he stretched out his hand for the 
third cup of tea (which he had taken only for the purpose 
of prolonging the pleasant table-chat), “ I wonder which 
of us is most changed.” 

“ You, of course,” said Mr. Billings, “ with your brown 


TALES OF HOME. 


196 

face and big mustache. Your own brother wouldn’t have 
known you if he had seen you last, as I did, with smooth 
cheeks and hair of unmerciful length. Why, not even 
your voice is the same ! ” 

“That is easily accounted for,” replied Mr. Johnson. 
“ But in your case, Enos, I am puzzled to find where the 
difference lies. Your features seem to be but little changed, 
now that I can examine them at leisure ; yet it is not the 
same face. But, really, I never looked at you for so long a 
time, in those days. I beg pardon ; you used to be so — 
so remarkably shy.” 

Mr. Billings blushed slightly, and seemed at a loss 
what to answer. His wife, however, burst into a merry 
laugh, exclaiming — 

“ Oh, that was before the days of the A. C ! ” 

fie, catching the infection, laughed also ; in fact Mr. 
J ohnson laughed, but without knowing why. 

“ The ( A. C.’ ! ” said Mr. Billings. “ Bless me, Eu- 
nice ! how long it is since we have talked of that summer ! 
I had almost forgotten that there ever was an A. C.” 

“ Enos, could you ever forget Abel Mallory and the 
beer ?— or that scene between Hollins and Shelldrake ?— 
or” (here she blushed the least bit) “your own fit of can- 
dor ? ” And she laughed again, more heartily than ever. 

“ What a precious lot of fools, to be sure ! ” exclaimed 
her husbanl 

Mr. Johnson, meanwhile, though enjoying the cheerful 
humor of his hosts, was not a little puzzled with regard to 
its cause. 


THE EXPERIENCES OF THE A. C. I97 

“ What is the A. C. ? ” he ventured to ask. 

Mr. and Mrs. Billings looked at each other, and smiled 
without replying. 

“ Really, Ned,” said the former, finally, “ the answer 
to your question involves the whole story.” 

“ Then why not tell him the whole story, Enos ? ” re- 
marked his wife. 

“You know I’ve never told it yet, and it’s rather a 
hard thing to do, seeing that I’m one of the heroes of the 
farce — for it wasn’t even genteel comedy, Ned,” said Mr. 
Billings. “ However,” he continued, “ absurd as the 
story may seem, it’s the only key to the change in my 
life, and I must run the risk of being laughed at.” 

“ I’ll help you through, Enos,” said his wife, encourag- 
ingly ; “ and besides, my role in the farce was no better 
than yours. Let us resuscitate, for to-night only, the con- 
stitution of the A. C.”» 

“ Upon my word, a capital idea ! But we shall have 
to initiate Ned.” 

Mr. Johnson merrily agreeing, he was blindfolded and 
conducted into another room. A heavy arm-chair, rolling 
on casters, struck his legs in the rear, and he sank into it 
with lamb-like resignation. 

“ Open your mouth ! ” was the command, given with 
mock solemnity. 

He obeyed. 

“ Now shut it ! ” 

And his lips closed upon a cigar, while at the same 
time the handkerchief was whisked away from his eyes 
He found himself in Mr. Billing’s library. 


198 


TALES OF HOM'E. 


“ Your nose betrays your taste, Mr. Johnson,” said the 
lady, “and I am not hard-hearted enough to deprive you 
of the indulgence. Here are matches.” 

“ Well,” said he, acting upon the hint, “ if the remain- 
der of the ceremonies are equally agreeable, I should like 
to be a permanent member of your order.” 

By this time Mr. and Mrs. Billings, having between 
them lighted the lamp, stirred up the coal in the grate, 
closed the doors, and taken possession of comfortable 
chairs, the latter proclaimed — 

“The Chapter (isn’t that what you call it?) will now 
be held ! ” 

“Was it in ’43 when you left home, Ned?” asked 
Mr. B. 

“ Yes.” 

“ Well, the A. C. culminated in ’45. You remember 
something of the society of Norridgeport, the last winter 
you were there ? Abel Mallory, for instance ? ” 

“ Let me think a moment,” said Mr. Johnson reflect 
ively. “ Really, it seems like looking back a hundred 
years. Mallory — wasn’t that the sentimental young man, 
with wispy hair, a tallowy skin, and big, sweaty hands, 
who used to be spouting Carlyle on the ‘ reading even- 
ings ’ at Shelldrake’s ? Yes, to be sure; and there was 
Hollins, with his clerical face and infidel talk, — and Pau- 
line Ringtop, who used to say; ‘ The Beautiful is the 
Good.’ I can still hear her shrill voice, singing, ‘ Would 
that /were beautiful, would that / were fair ! ’ ” 

There was a hearty chorus of laughter at poor Miss 


THE EXPERIENCES OF THE A. C. 1 99 

Ringtop’s expense. It harmed no one, however ; for the 
tar-weed was already thick over her Californian grave. 

“Oh, I see,” said Mr. Billings, “you still remember 
the absurdities of those days. In fact, I think you partial- 
ly saw through them then. But I was younger, and far 
from being so clear-headed, and I looked upon those 
evenings at Shelldrake’s as being equal, at least, to the 
symposia of Plato. Something in Mallory alw r ays repelled 
me. I detested the sight of his thick nose, with the flaring 
nostrils, and his coarse, half-formed lips, of the bluish color 
of raw corned-beef. But I looked upon these feelings as un- 
reasonable prejudices, and strove to conquer them, seeing 
the admiration which he received from others. He was an 
oracle on the subject of ‘ Nature.’ Having eaten nothing 
for two years, except Graham bread, vegetables without 
salt, and fruits, fresh or dried, he considered himself to 
have attained an antediluvian purity of health — or that he 
would attain it, so soon as two pimples on his left temple 
should have healed. These pimples he looked upon as 
the last feeble stand made by the pernicious juices left 
from the meat he had formerly eaten and the coffee he 
had drunk. His theory was, that through a body so 
purged and purified none but true and natural impulses 
could find access to the soul. Such, indeed, was the the- 
ory we all held. A Return to Nature was the near Mil- 
lennium, the dawn of which we already beheld in the sky. 
To be sure there was a difference in our individual views 
as to how this should be achieved, but we were all agreed 
as to what the result should be. 


200 


TALES OF HOME. 


“ I can laugh over those days now, Ned ; but they 
were really happy while they lasted. We were the salt of 
the earth ; we were lifted above those grovelling instincts 
which we saw manifested in the lives of others. Each con- 
tributed his share of gas to inflate the painted balloon to 
which we all clung, in the expectation that it would pres- 
ently soar with us to the stars. But it only went up over 
the out-houses, dodged backwards and forwards two or 
three times, and finally flopped down with us into a swamp.” 

“ And that balloon was the A. C. ? ” suggested Mr. 
Johnson. 

“ As President of this Chapter, I prohibit questions,” 
said Eunice. “ And, Enos, don’t send up your balloon un- 
til the proper time. Don’t anticipate the programme, or 
the performance will be spoiled.” 

“ I had almost forgotten that Ned is so much in the 
dark,” her obedient husband answered. “ You can have 
but a slight notion,” he continued, turning to his friend, 
“ of the extent to which this sentimental, or transcendental, 
element in the little circle at Shelldrake’s increased after 
you left Norridgeport. We read the ‘ Dial,’ and Emerson ; 
we believed in Alcott as the * purple Plato ’ of modern 
times ; we took psychological works out of the library, 
and would listen for hours to Hollins while he read Schel- 
ling or Fichte, and then go home with a misty impression 
of having imbibed infinite wisdom. It was, perhaps, a 
natural, though very eccentric rebound from the hard, prac- 
tical, unimaginative New-England mind which surround- 
ed us ; yet I look back upon it with a kind of wonder. 


THE EXPERIENCES OF THE A. C. 


201 


I was then, as you know, unformed mentally, and might 
have been so still, but for the experiences of the A. C.” 

Mr. Johnson shifted his position, a little impatiently. 
Eunice looked at him with laughing eyes, and shook her 
finger with a mock threat. 

“ Shelldrake,” continued Mr. Billings, without noticing 
this by-play, “ was a man of more pretence than real cul- 
tivation, as I afterwards discovered. He was in good cir- 
cumstances, and always glad to receive us at his house, as 
this made him, virtually, the chief of our tribe, and the out- 
lay for refreshments involved only the apples from his own 
orchard and water from his well. There was an entire ab- 
sence of conventionality at our meetings, and this, con- 
pared with the somewhat stiff society of the village, was 
really an attraction. There was a mystic bond of union 
in our ideas : we discussed life, love, religion, and the fu- 
ture state, not only with the utmost candor, but with a 
warmth of feeling which, in many of us, was genuine. 
Even I (and you know how painfully shy and bashful I 
was) felt myself more at home there than in my father’s 
house ; and if I didn’t talk much, I had a pleasant feeling 
of being in harmony with those who did. 

“ Well, ’twas in the early part of ’45 — I think in April, 
— when we were all gathered together, discussing, as usual, 
the possibility of leading a life in accordance with Nature. 
Abel Mallory was there, and Hollins, and Miss Ringtop, 
and Faith Levis, with her knitting, — and also Eunice 
Hazleton, a lady whom you have never seen, but you 
may take my wife at her representative — ” 


202 


TALES OF HOME. 


“ Stick to the programme, Enos,” interrupted Mrs. Bil- 
lings. 

“ Eunice Hazleton, then. I wish I could recollect 
some of the speeches made on that occasion. Abel had 
but one pimple on his temple (there was a purple spot 
where the other had been), and was estimating that in two 
or three months more he would be a true, unspoiled man. 
His complexion, nevertheless, was more clammy and whey- 
like than ever. 

“‘Yes,’ said he, ‘I also am an Arcadian ! This false 
dual existence which I have been leading will soon be 
merged in the unity of Nature. Our lives must conform 
to her sacred law. Why can’t we strip off these hollow 
Shams,’ (he made great use of that word,) ‘ and be our 
true selves, pure, perfect, and divine ? ’ 

“ Miss Ringtop heaved a sigh, and repeated a stanza 
from her favorite poet : 

“ * Ah, when wrecked are my desires 
On the everlasting Never, 

And my heart with all its fires 
Out forever, 

In the cradle of Creation 
Finds the soul resuscitation ! 

“ Shelldrake, however, turning to his wife, said — 

“ ‘ Elviry, how many up-stairs rooms is there in that 
house down on the Sound ? ’ 

“ ‘ Four,— besides three small ones under the roof. 
Why, what made you think of that, Jesse ? ’ said she. 

“ ‘ I’ve got an idea, while Abel’s been talking,’ he an- 


THE EXPERIENCES OF THE A. C. 203 


swered. ‘ We’ve taken a house for the summer, down the 
other side of Bridgeport, right on the water, where there’s 
good fishing and a fine view of the Sound. Now, there’s 
room enough for all of us — at least all that can make it 
suit to go. Abel, you and Enos, and Pauline and Eunice 
might fix matters so that we could all take the place in 
partnership, and pass the summer together, living a true 
and beautiful life in the bosom of Nature. There we shall 
be perfectly free and untrammelled by the chains which 
still hang around us in Norridgeport. You know how of- 
ten we have wanted to be set on some island in the Pa- 
cific Ocean, where we could build up a true society, right 
from the start. Now, here’s a chance to try the experiment 
for a few months, anyhow.’ 

“ Eunice clapped her hands (yes, you did ! ) and cried 
out — 

“ ‘ Splendid ! Aroadian ! I’ll give up my school for the 
summer.’ 

“Miss Ringtop gave her opinion in another quota- 
tion : 


“ ‘ The rainbow hues of the Ideal 

Condense to gems, and form the Real ! ’ 


“ Abel Mallory, of course, did not need to have the pro- 
posal repeated. He was ready for any thing which prom- 
ised indulgence, and the indulgence of his sentimental 
tastes. I will do the fellow the justice to say that he was 
not a hypocrite. He firmly believed both in himself and 
his ideas — especially the former. He pushed both hands 


204 


TALES OF HOME. 


through the long wisps of his drab-colored hair, and threw 
his head back until his wide nostrils resembled a double 
door to his brain. 

“‘Oh Nature!’ he said, ‘you have found your lost 
children ! We shall obey your neglected laws ! we shall 
hearken to your divine whispers ! we shall bring you back 
from your ignominious exile, and place you on your ances- 
tral throne ! ’ 

“ ‘ Let us do it ! ’ was the general cry. 

“ A sudden enthusiasm fired us, and we grasped each 
other’s hands in the hearty impulse of the moment. My 
own private intention to make a summer trip to the White 
Mountains had been relinquished the moment I heard 
Eunice give in her adhesion. I may as well confess, at 
once, that I was desperately in love, and afraid to speak 
to her. 

“ By the time Mrs. Sheldrake brought in the apples 
and water we were discussing the plan as a settled thing. 
Hollins had an engagement to deliver Temperance lec« 
tures in Ohio during the summer, but decided to postpone 
his departure until August, so that he might, at least, spend 
two months with us. Faith Levis couldn’t go — at which, 
I think, we were all secretly glad. Some three or four 
others were in the same case, and the company was finally 
arranged to consist of the Shelldrakes, Hollins, Mallory, 
Eunice, Miss Ringtop, and myself. We did not give much 
thought, either to the preparations in advance, or to our 
mode of life when settled there. We were to live near to 
Nature : that was the main thing. 


THE EXPERIENCES OF THE A. C. 


205 


“ ‘ What shall we call the place ? ’ asked Eunice. 

u ‘ Arcadia ! ’ said Abel Mallory, rolling up his large 
green eyes. 

“ 1 -Then/ said Hollins, ‘ let us constitute ourselves the 
Arcadian Club ! ’ ” 

. “ Aha ! ” interrupted Mr. Johnson, “ I see ! The 

A. C. ! ” 

“ Yes, you can see the A. C. now,” said Mrs. Billings ; 
. “ but to understand it fully, you should have had a share 
in those Arcadian experiences.” 

“ I am all the more interested in hearing them descri- 
bed. Go on, Enos.” 

“ The proposition was adopted. We called ourselves 
The Arcadian Club ; but in order to avoid gossip, and the 
usual ridicule, to which we were all more or less sensitive, 
in case our plan should become generally known, it was 
agreed that the initials only should be used. Besides, 
there was an agreeable air of mystery about it : we thought 
of Delphi, and Eleusis, and Samothrace : we should dis- 
cover that Truth which the dim eyes of worldly men and 
women were unable to see, and the day of disclosure 
would be the day of Triumph. In one sense we were 
truly Arcadians : no suspicion of impropriety, I verily be- 
lieve, entered any of our minds. In our aspirations after 
what we called a truer life there was no material taint. We 
were fools, if you choose, but as far as possible from being 
sinners. Besides, the characters of Mr. and Mrs. Shell- 
drake, who naturally became the heads of our proposed 
community were sufficient to preserve us from slander 


20 6 


TALES OF HOME. 


or suspicion, if even our designs had been publicly an- 
nounced. 

“ I won’t bore you with an account of our prepara- 
tions. In fact, there was very little to be done. Mr. 
Shelldrake succeeded in hiring the house, with most of its 
furniture, so that but a few articles had to be supplied. 
My trunk contained more books than boots, more blank 
paper than linen. 

“ ‘ Two shirts will be enough,’ said Abel : ‘ you can 
wash one of them any day, and dry it in the sun.’ 

“ The supplies consisted mostly of flour, potatoes, and 
sugar. There was a vegetable-garden in good condition, 
Mr. Shelldrake said, which would be our principal depend- 
ence. 

“ ‘ Besides, the clams ! ’ I exclaimed unthinkingly. 

“ ‘ Oh, yes ! ’ said Eunice, ‘ we can have chowder-par- 
ties : that will be delightful ! ’ 

“ ‘ Clams ! chowder ! oh, worse than flesh ! ’ groaned 
Abel. ‘ Will you reverence Nature by outragingher first 
laws ? ’ 

“ I had made a great mistake, and felt very foolish. 
Eunice and I looked at each other, for the first time.” 

“ Speak for yourself only, Enos,” gently interpolated 
his wife. 

“ It was a lovely afternoon in the beginning of June 
when we first approached Arcadia. We had taken two 
double teams at Bridgeport, and drove slowly forward to 
our destination, followed by a cart containing our trunks 
and a few household articles. It was a bright, balmy day : 


THE EXPERIENCES OF THE A. C. 2 O'] 

the wheat-fields were rich and green, the clover showed 
faint streaks of ruby mist along slopes leaning southward, 
and the meadows were yellow with buttercups. Now and 
then we caught glimpses of the Sound, and, far beyond 
it, the dim Long Island shore. Every old white farm- 
house, with its gray-walled garden, its clumps of lilacs, vi- 
burnums, and early roses, offered us a picture of pastoral 
simplicity and repose. We passed them, one by one, in the 
happiest mood, enjoying the earth around us, the sky 
above, and ourselves most of all. 

“The scenery, however, gradually became more rough 
and broken. Knobs of gray gneiss, crowned by mournful 
cedars, intrenched upon the arable land, and the dark-blue 
gleam of water appeared through the trees. Our road, 
which had been approaching the Sound, now skirted the 
head of a deep, irregular inlet, beyond which extended a 
beautiful promontory, thickly studded with cedars, and 
with scattering groups of elm, oak and maple trees. To- 
wards the end of the promontory stood a house, with 
white walls shining against the blue line of the Sound. 

“ 4 There is Arcadia, at last ! ’ exclaimed Mr. Shell- 
drake. 

“ A general outcry of delight greeted the announce- 
ment. And, indeed, the loveliness of the picture surpass- 
ed our most poetic anticipations. The low sun was throw- 
ing exquisite lights across the point, painting the slopes of 
grass of golden green, and giving a pearly softness to the 
gray rocks. In the back-ground was drawn the far-off 
water-line, over which a few specks of sail glimmered 


208 


TALES OF HOME. 


against the sky. Miss Ringtop, who, with Eunice, Mal- 
lory, and myself, occupied one carriage, expressed her 
4 gushing ’ feelings in the usual manner : 

“ ‘ Where the turf is softest, greenest, 

Doth an angel thrust me on, — 

Where the landscape lies serenest, 

In the journey of the sun ! ’ 

“ 1 Don’t, Pauline ! ’ said Eunice ; ‘ I never like to hear 
poetry flourished in the face of Nature. This landscape 
surpasses any poem in. the world. Let us enjoy the best 
thing we have, rather than the next best.’ 

“ 1 Ah, yes ! ’ sighed Miss Ringtop, 1 ’tis true ! 

“ ‘ They sing to the ear ; this sings to the eye ! * 

“ Thenceforward, to the house, all was childish joy and 
jubilee. All minor personal repugnances were smoothed 
Dver in the general exultation. Even Abel Mallory be- 
came agreeable ; and Hollins, sitting beside Mrs. Shell- 
drake on the back seat of the foremost carriage, shouted 
to us, in boyish lightness of heart. 

“ Passing the head of the inlet, we left the country- 
road, and entered, through a gate in the tottering stone 
wall, on our summer domain. A track, open to the field 
on one side, led us past a clump of deciduous trees, be- 
tween pastures broken by cedared knolls of rock, down 
the centre of the peninsula, to the house. It was quite 
an old frame-building, two stories high, with a gambrel 
roof and tall chimneys. Two slim Lombardy poplars and 


THE EXPERIENCES OF THE A. C. 20g 

a broad-leaved catalpa shaded the southern side, and a 
kitchen-garden, (divided in the centre by a double row of 
untrimmed currant-bushes, flanked it on the east. For 
flowers, there were masses of blue flags and coarse tawny- 
red lilies, besides a huge trumpet-vine which swung its 
pendent arms from one of the gables. In front of the 
house a natural lawn of mingled turf and rock sloped 
steeply down to the water, which was not more than two 
hundred yards distant. To the west was another and 
broader inlet of the Sound, out of which our Arcadian 
promontory rose bluff and bold, crowned with a thick 
fringe of pines. It was really a lovely spot which Shell- 
drake had chosen — so secluded, while almost surrounded 
by the winged and moving life of the Sound, so simple, 
so pastoral and home-like. No one doubted the success 
of our experiment, for that evening at least. 

“ Perkins Brown, Shelldrake’s boy-of-all-work, awaited 
us at the door. He ’had been sent on two or three days 
in advance, to take charge of the house, and seemed to 
have had enough of hermit-life, for he hailed us with a 
wild whoop, throwing his straw hat half-way up one of the 
poplars. Perkins was a boy of fifteen, the child of poor 
parents, who were satisfied to get him off their hands, re- 
gardless as to what humanitarian theories might be tested 
upon him. As the Arcadian Club recognized no such 
thing as caste, he was always admitted to our meetings, 
and understood just enough of our conversation to excite 
a silly ambition in his slow mind. His animal nature was 
predominant and this led him to be deceitful. At that 


210 


TALES OF HOME. 


time, however, we all looked upon him as a proper young 
Arcadian, and hoped that he would develop into a second 
Abel Mallory. 

“ After our effects had been deposited on the stoop, 
and the carriages had driven away, we proceeded to ap- 
portion the rooms, and take possession. On the first floor 
there were three rooms, two of which would serve us as 
dining and drawing rooms, leaving the third for the Shell- 
drakes. As neither Eunice and Miss Ringtop, nor Hol- 
lins and Abel showed any disposition to room together, 
I quietly gave up to them the four rooms in the sec- 
ond story, and installed myself in one of the attic cham- 
bers. Here I could hear the music of the rain close 
above my head, and through the little gable window, as I 
lay in bed, watch the colors of the morning gradually 
steal over the distant shores. The end was, we were all 
satisfied. 

“ ‘ Now for our first meal in. Arcadia ! ’ was the next 
cry. Mrs. Shelldrake, like a prudent housekeeper, 
marched off to the kitchen, where Perkins had already 
kindled a fire. We looked in at the door, but thought it 
best to allow her undisputed sway in such a narrow 
realm. Eunice was unpacking some loaves of bread and 
paper bags of crackers ; and Miss Ringtop, smiling 
through her ropy curls, as much as to say, ‘You see, / 
also can perform the coarser tasks of life ! ’ occupied her- 
self with plates and cups. We men, therefore, walked 
out to the garden, which we found in a promising condi- 
tion. The usual vegetables had been planted and were 


THE EXPERIENCES OF THE A. C. 


21 I 


growing finely, for the season was yet scarcely warm 
enough for the weeds to make much headway. Radishes, 
young onions, and lettuce formed our contribution to the 
table. The Shelldrakes, I should explain, had not yet 
advanced to the antediluvian point, in diet : nor, indeed, 
had either Eunice or myself. We acknowledged the fas- 
cination of tea, we saw a very mitigated evil in milk and 
butter, and we were conscious of stifled longings after the 
abomination of meat. Only Mallory, Hollins, and Miss 
Ringtop had reached that loftiest round on the ladder of 
progress where the material nature loosens the last fetter 
of the spiritual. They looked down upon us, and we 
meekly admitted their right to do so. 

“ Our board, that evening, was really tempting. The 
absence of meat was compensated to us by the crisp and 
racy onions, and I craved only a little salt, which had 
been interdicted, as a most pernicious substance. I sat 
at one corner of the table, beside Perkins Brown, who 
took an opportunity, while the others were engaged in 
conversation, to jog my elbow gently. As I turned to- 
wards him, he said nothing, but dropped his eyes signifi- 
cantly. The little rascal had the lid of a blacking-box, 
filled with salt, upon his knee, and was privately season- 
ing his onions and radishes. I blushed at the thought 
of my hypocrisy, but the onions were so much better that 
I couldn’t help dipping into the lid with him. 

“ ‘ Oh,’ said Eunice, ‘ we must send for some oil and 
vinegar! This lettuce is very nice.’ 

“ 1 Oil and vinegar ? ’ exclaimed Abel. 


212 


TALES OF HOME. 


“ ‘ Why, yes,’ said she, innocently : ‘ they are both 
vegetable substances.’ 

“ Abel at first looked rather foolish, but quickly re- 
covering himself, said — 

“ ‘ All vegetable substances are not proper for food : 
you would not taste the poison-oak, or sit under the 
upas-tree of Java.’ 

“‘Well, Abel,’ Eunice rejoined, ‘how are we to dis- 
tinguish what is best for us ? How are we to know what 
vegetables to choose, or what animal and mineral sub- 
stances to avoid ? ’ 

“ ‘ I will tell you,’ he answered, with a lofty air. ‘ See 
here ! ’ pointing to his temple, where the second pimple 
— either from the change of air, or because, in the ex- 
citement of the last few days, he had forgotten it — was 
actually healed. ‘ My blood is at last pure. The strug- 
gle between the natural and the unnatural is over, and I 
am beyond the depraved influences of my former taste. 
My instincts are now, therefore, entirely pure also. What 
is good for man to eat, that I shall have a natural desire 
to eat : what is bad will be naturally repelled. How does 
the cow distinguish between the wholesome and the poi- 
sonous herbs of the meadow ? And is man less than a 
cow, that he cannot cultivate his instincts to an equal 
point ? Let me walk through the woods and I can tell 
you every berry and root which God designed for food, 
though I know not its name, and have never seen it be- 
fore. I shall make use of my time, during our sojourn 
here, to test, by my purified instinct, every substance, an- 


THE EXPERIENCES OF THE A. C. 213 

imal, mineral, and vegetable, upon which the human race 
.subsists, and to create a catalogue of the True Food of 
Man!’ 

“ Abel was eloquent on this theme, and he silenced 
not only Eunice, but the rest of us. Indeed, as we were 
all half infected with the same delusions, it was not easy 
to answer his sophistries. 

“ After supper was over, the prospect of cleaning the 
dishes and putting things in order was not so agreeable ; 
but Mrs. Shelldrake and Perkins undertook the work, 
and we did not think it necessary to interfere with them. 
Half an hour afterwards, when the full moon had risen, 
we took our chairs upon the stoop, to enjoy the calm, 
silver night, the soft sea-air, and our summer’s residence 
in anticipatory talk. 

“ ‘ My friends,’ said Hollins (and his hobby, as you 
may remember, Ned, was the organization of Society, 
rather than those reforms which apply directly to the In- 
dividual), — ‘ my friends, I think we are sufficiently ad- 
vanced in progressive ideas to establish our little Arca- 
dian community upon what I consider the true basis : 
not Law, nor Custom, but the uncorrupted impulses of 
our nature. What Abel said in regard to dietetic reform 
is true ; but that alone will not regenerate the race. We 
must rise superior to those conventional ideas of Duty 
whereby Life is warped and crippled. Life must not be 
a prison, where each one must come and go, work, eat, 
and sleep, as the jailer commands. Labor must not be 
a necessity, but a spontaneous joy. *Tis true, but little 


214 


TALES OF HOME. 


labor is required of us here : let us, therefore, have no 
set tasks, no fixed rules, but each one work, rest, eat, 
sleep, talk or be silent, as his own nature prompts.’ 

“Perkins, sitting on the steps, gave a suppressed 
chuckle, which I think no one heard but myself. I was 
vexed with his levity, but, nevertheless, gave him a warning 
nudge with my toe, in payment for the surreptitious salt. 

“‘That’s just the notion I had, when I first talked 
of our coming here,’ said Shelldrake. ‘Here we’re 
alone and unhindered ; and if the plan shouldn’t happen 
to work well (I don’t see why it shouldn’t though), no 
harm will be done. I’ve had a deal of hard work in my 
life, and I’ve been badgered and bullied so much by 
your strait-laced professors, that I’m glad to get away 
from the world for a spell, and talk and do rationally, 
without being laughed at.’ 

“ ‘ Yes,’ answered Hollins, ‘ and if we succeed, as I 
feel we shall, for I think I know the hearts of all of us 
here, this may be the commencement of a new <?<?poch for 
the world. We may become the turning-point between 
two dispensations : behind us every thing false and un- 
natural, before us every thing true, beautiful, and good.’ 

“‘■Ah,’ sighed Miss Ringtop, ‘ it reminds me of Ga- 
maliel J. Gawthrop’s beautiful lines : 

“ * Unrobed man is lying hoary 

In the distance, gray and dead ; 

There no wreaths of godless glory 
To his mist-like tresses wed, 

And the foot-fall of the Ages 

Reigns supreme, with noiseless tread.* 


THE EXPERIENCES OF THE A. C. 21 5 

“ ‘ I am willing to try the experiment,’ said I, on be- 
ing appealed to by Hollins ; 4 but don’t you think we had 
better observe some kind of order, even in yielding every 
thing to impulse ? Shouldn’t there be, at least, a plat- 
form, as the politicians call it — an agreement by which 
we shall all be bound, and which we can afterwards ex- 
hibit as the basis of our success ? ’ 

“ He meditated a few moments, and then answered — 
“ 4 1 think not. It resembles too much the thing we 
are trying to overthrow. Can you bind a man’s belief 
by making him sign certain articles of Faith ? No : his 
thought will be free, in spite of it ; and I would have Ac- 
tion — Life — as free as Thought. Our platform — to adopt 
your image — has but one plank : Truth. Let each only 
be true to himself : be himself, act himself, or herself with 
the uttermost candor. We can all agree upon that.’ 

44 The agreement was accordingly made. And cer- 
tainly no happier or more hopeful human beings went to 
bed in all New England that night. 

44 1 arose with the sun, went into the garden, and com- 
menced weeding, intending to do my quota of work before 
breakfast, and then devote the day to reading and conver- 
sation. I was presently joined by Shelldrake and Mal- 
lory, and between us we finished the onions and radishes, 
stuck the peas, and cleaned the alleys. Perkins, after 
milking the cow and turning her out to pasture, assisted 
Mrs. Shelldrake in the kitchen. At breakfast we were 
joined by Hollins, who made no excuse for his easy morn- 
ing habits ; nor was one expected. I may as well tell you 


21 6 


TALES OF HOME. 


now, though, that his natural instincts never led him to 
work. After a week, when a second crop of weeds was 
coming on, Mallory fell off also, and thenceforth Shelldrake 
and myself had the entire charge of the garden. Perkins 
did the rougher work, and was always on hand when he 
was wanted. Very soon, however, I noticed that he was 
in the habit of disappearing for two or three hours in the 
afternoon. 

“Our meals preserved the same Spartan simplicity. 
Eunice, however, carried her point in regard to the salad ; 
for Abel, after tasting and finding it very palatable, de- 
cided that oil and vinegar might be classed in the cata- 
logue of True Food. Indeed, his long abstinence from 
piquant flavors gave him such an appetite for it that our 
supply of lettuce was soon exhausted. An embarrassing 
accident also favored us with the use of salt. Perkins 
happening to move his knee at the moment I was dipping 
an onion into the blacking-box lid, our supply was knock- 
ed upon the floor. He picked it up, and we both hoped 
the accident might pass unnoticed. But Abel, stretching 
his long neck across the corner of the table, caught a 
glimpse of what was going on. 

“ * What’s that ? ’ he asked. 

“‘Oh, it’s — it’s only,’ said I, seeking for a synonyme, 
‘ only chloride of sodium 1 ’ 

“ ‘ Chloride of sodium ! what do you do with it ? ’ 

“ ‘ Eat it with onions,’ said I, boldly : ‘ it’s a chemical 
substance, but I believe it is found in some plants.’ 

“Eunice, who knew something of chemistry (she 


THE EXPERIENCES OF THE A. C. 21 7 

taught a class, though you wouldn’t think it), grew red 
with suppressed fun, but the others were as ignorant as 
Abel Mallory himself. 

“ ‘ Let me taste it,’ said he, stretching out an onion. 

“ I handed him the box-lid, which still contained a 
portion of its contents. He dipped the onion, bit off a 
piece, and chewed it gravely. 

“ ‘ Why,’ said he, turning to me, ‘ it’s very much like 
salt.’ 

“ Perkins burst into a spluttering yell, which discharg- 
ed an onion-top he had just put between his teeth across 
the table ; Eunice and I gave way at the same moment ; 
and the others, catching the joke, joined us. But while 
we were laughing, Abel was finishing his onion, and the 
result was that Salt was added to the True Food, and 
thereafter appeared regularly on the table. 

“ The forenoons we usually spent in reading and writ- 
ing, each in his or her chamber. (Oh, the journals, Ned ! 
— but you shall not see mine.) After a midday meal, — 
I cannot call it dinner, — we sat upon the stoop, listening 
while one of us read aloud, or strolled down the shores on 
either side, or, when the sun was not too warm, got into 
a boat, and rowed or floated lazily around the promontory. 

“ One afternoon, as I was sauntering off, past the gar- 
den, towards the eastern inlet, I noticed Perkins slipping 
along behind the cedar knobs, towards the little woodland 
at the end of our domain. Curious to find out the cause 
of his mysterious disappearances, I followed cautiously. 
From the edge of the wood I saw him enter a little gap 
io 


218 


TALES OF HOME. 


between the rocks, which led down to the water. Pres- 
ently a thread of blue smoke stole up. Quietly creeping 
along, I got upon the nearer bluff and looked down. There 
was a sort of hearth built up at the base of the rock, with 
a brisk little fire burning upon it, but Perkins had disap- 
peared. I stretched myself out upon the moss, in the 
shade, and waited. In about half an hour up came Per- 
kins, with a large fish in one hand and a lump of clay in 
the other. I now understood the mystery. He carefully 
imbedded the fish in a thin layer of clay, placed it on the 
coals, and then went down to the shore to wash his hands. 
On his return he found me watching the fire. 

“ ‘ Ho, ho, Mr. Enos ! ’ said he, ‘ you’ve found me out ; 
But you won’t say nothin’. Gosh ! you like it as well I do. 
Look ’ee there ! ’ — breaking open the clay, from which 
arose ‘ a steam of rich distilled perfumes,’ — ‘ and, I say, 
I’ve got the box-lid with that ’ere stuff in it, — ho ! ho ! ’ 
— and the scamp roared again. 

“ Out of a hole in the rock he brought salt and the end 
of a loaf, and between us we finished the fish. Before long, 
I got into the habit of disappearing in the afternoon. 

“ Now and then we took walks, alone or collectively, 
to the nearest village, or even to Bridgeport, for the papers 
or a late book. The few purchases we required were 
made at such times, and sent down in a cart, or, if not too 
heavy, carried by Perkins in a basket. I noticed that 
Abel, whenever we had occasion to visit a grocery, would 
go sniffing around, alternately attracted or repelled by the 
various articles : now turning away with a shudder from a 


THE EXPERIENCES OF THE A. C. 219 

ham, — now inhaling, with a fearful delight and uncertain- 
ty, the odor of smoked herrings. 1 1 think herrings must 
feed on sea-weed,’ said he, 4 there is such a vegetable at- 
traction about them.’ After his violent vegetarian haran- 
gues, however, he hesitated about adding them to his 
catalogue. 

“ But, one day, as we were passing through the village, 
he was reminded by the sign of ‘ Warter Crackers’ in 
the window of an obscure grocery that he required a sup 
ply of these articles, and we therefore entered. There 
was a splendid Rhode Island cheese on the counter, from 
which the shop-mistress was just cutting a slice for a cus 
tomer. Abel leaned over it, inhaling the rich, pungent 
fragrance. 

“ 1 Enos,’ said he to me, between his sniffs, ‘ this im 
presses me like flowers — like marigolds. It must be — 
really — yes, the vegetable element is predominant. My 
instinct towards it is so strong that I cannot be mistaken. 
May I taste it, ma’am ? ’ 

“ The woman sliced off a thin corner, and presented it 
to him on the knife. 

“ ‘ Delicious ! ’ he exclaimed ; ‘lam right, — this is the 
True Food. Give me two pounds — and the crackers, 
ma’am.’ 

“ I turned away, quite as much disgusted as amused 
with this charlatanism. And yet I verily believe the fellow 
was sincere — self-deluded only. I had by this time lost 
my faith in him, though not in the great Arcadian princi- 
ples. On reaching home, after an hour’s walk, I found 


220 


TALES OF HOME. 


our household in unusual commotion. Abel was writhing 
in intense pain : he had eaten the whole two pounds of 
cheese, on his way home ! His stomach, so weakened by 
years of unhealthy abstinence from true nourishment, was 
now terribly tortured by this sudden stimulus. Mrs. Shell- 
drake, fortunately, had some mustard among her stores, 
and could therefore administer a timely emetic. His life 
was saved, but he was very ill for two or three days. Hol- 
lins did not fail to take advantage of this circumstance to 
overthrow the authority which Abel had gradually acquired 
on the subject of food. He was so arrogant in his nature 
that he could not tolerate the same quality in another, 
even where their views coincided. 

“ By this time several weeks had passed away. It was 
the beginning of July, and the long summer heats had 
come. I was driven out of my attic during the middle hours 
of the day, and the others found it pleasanter on the doubly 
shaded stoop than in their chambers. We were thus 
thrown more together than usual — a circumstance which 
made our life more monotonous to the others, as I could 
see ; but to myself, who could at last talk to Eunice, and 
who was happy at the very sight of her, this 1 heated term’ 
seemed borrowed from Elysium. I read aloud, and the 
sound of my own voice gave me confidence ; many passa- 
ges suggested discussions, in which I took a part ; and you 
may judge, Ned, how fast I got on, from the fact that I 
ventured to tell Eunice of my fish-bakes with Perkins, and 
invite her to join them. After that, she also often disap- 
peared from sight for an hour or two in the afternoon.” 


THE EXPERIENCES OF THE A. C. 


221 


“ Oh, Mr. Johnson,” interrupted Mrs. Billings, 

“ it wasn’t for the fish ! ” 

“ Of course not,” said her husband ; “ it was for my 
sake.” 

“ No, you need not think it was for you. Enos,” she 
added, perceiving the feminine dilemma into which she 
had been led, “ all this is not necessary to the story.” 

“ Stop ! ” he answered. “ The A. C. has been re- 
vived for this night only. Do you remember our plat- 
form, or rather no-platform ? I must follow my impulses, 
and say whatever comes uppermost.” 

“ Right, Enos,” said Mr. Johnson ; “ I, as temporary 
Arcadian, take the same ground. My instinct tells me 
that you, Mrs. Billings, must permit the confession.” 

She submitted with a good grace, and her husband 
continued : 

“ I said that our kzy life during the hot weather had 
become a little monotonous. The Arcadian plan had 
worked tolerably well, on the whole, for there was very little 
for any one to do — Mrs. Shelldrake and Perkins Brown 
excepted. Our conversation, however, lacked spirit and 
variety. We were, perhaps unconsciously, a little tired 
of hearing and assenting to the same sentiments. But 
one evening, about this time, Hollins struck upon a vari- 
ation, the consequences of which he little foresaw. We 
had been reading one of Bulwer’s works (the weather 
was too hot for Psychology), and came upon this para- 
graph, or something like it : 

“ ‘ Ah, Behind the Veil ! We see the summer smile 


222 


TALES OF HOME. 


of the Earth — enamelled meadow and limpid stream, — 
but what hides she in her sunless heart ? Caverns of ser- 
pents, or grottoes of priceless gems ? Youth, whose soul 
sits on thy countenance, thyself wearing no mask, strive 
not to lift the masks of others ! Be content with what 
thou seest ; and wait until Time and Experience shall 
teach thee to find jealousy behind the sweet smile, and 
hatred under the honeyed word ! ’ 

“ This seemed to us a dark and bitter reflection ; but 
one or another of us recalled some illustration of human 
hypocrisy, and the evidences, by the simple fact of repeti- 
tion, gradually led to a division of opinion — Hollins, 
Shelldrake, and Miss Ringtop on the dark side, and the 
rest of us on the bright. The last, however, contented 
herself with quoting from her favorite poet, Gamaliel J. 
Gawthrop : 


“ ‘ I look beyond thy brow’s concealment ! 

I see thy spirit’s dark revealment ! 

Thy inner self betrayed I see : 

Thy coward, craven, shivering Me ! * 

“ * We think we know one another,’ exclaimed Hol- 
lins ; * but do we ? We see the faults of others, their 
weaknesses, their disagreeable qualities, and we keep 
silent. How much we should gain, were candor as uni- 
versal as concealment ! Then each one, seeing himself 
as others see him, would truly know himself. How much 
misunderstanding might be avoided — how much hidden 
shame be removed — hopeless, because unspoken, love 
made glad — honest admiration cheer its object — uttered 


THE EXPERIENCES OF THE A. C. 223 

sympathy mitigate misfortune — in short, how much brighter 
and happier the world would become if each one express- 
ed, everywhere and at all times, his true and entire feeling ! 
Why, even Evil would lose half its power ! ’ 

“ There seemed to be so much practical wisdom in 
these views that we were all dazzled and half-convinced 
at the start. So, when Hollins, turning towards me, as 
he continued, exclaimed — ‘Come, why should not this 
candor be adopted in our Arcadia ? Will any one — will 
you, Enos — commence at once by telling me now — to my 
face — my principal faults ? ’ I answered after a moment’s 
reflection — ‘You have a great deal of intellectual arro- 
gance, and you are, physically, very indolent.’ 

“ He did not flinch from the self-invited test, though 
he looked a little surprised. 

“ ‘ Well put,’ said he, ‘ though I do not say that you 
are entirely correct. Now, what are my merits? ’ 

“‘You are clear-sighted,’ I answered, ‘an earnest 
seeker after truth, and courageous in the avowal of your 
thoughts.’ 

“ This restored the balance, and we soon began to 
confess our own private faults and weaknesses. Though 
the confessions did not go very deep, — no one betraying 
anything we did not all know already,— yet they were suf- 
ficient to strength Hollins in his new idea, and it was 
unanimously resolved that Candor should thenceforth be 
the main charm of our Arcadian life. It was the very thing 
I wanted, in order to make a certain communication to 
Eunice ; but I should probably never have reached the 


224 


TALES OF HOME. 


point, had not the same candor been exercised towards 
me, from a quarter where I least expected it. 

“ The next day, Abel, who had resumed his researches 
after the True Food, came home to supper with a healthier 
color than I had before seen on his face. 

44 4 Do you know,’ said he, looking shyly at Hollins, 
4 that I begin to think Beer must be a natural beverage ? 
There was an auction in the village to-day, as I passed 
through, and I stopped at a cake-stand to get a glass of 
water, as it was very hot. There was no water — only 
beer : so I thought I would try a glass, simply as an ex- 
periment. Really, the flavor was very agreeable. And 
it occurred to me, on the way home, that all the elements 
contained in beer are vegetable. Besides, fermentation 
is a natural process. I think the question has never been 
properly tested before.’ 

44 4 But the alcohol ! ’ exclaimed Hollins. 

4 ‘ 4 1 could not distinguish any, either by taste or smell. 
I know that chemical analysis is said to show it ; but may 
not the alcohol be created, somehow, during the analysis ? ’ 

44 4 Abel,’ said Hollins, in a fresh burst of candor, 
‘you will never be a Reformer, until you possess some of 
the commonest elements of knowledge.’ 

44 The rest of us were much diverted : it was a pleasant 
relief to our monotonous amiability. 

44 Abel, however, had a stubborn streak in his charac- 
ter. The next day he sent Perkins Brown to Bridgeport 
for a dozen bottles of 4 Beer.’ Perkins, either intention- 
ally or by mistake, (I always suspected the former,) 


THE EXPERIENCES OF THE A. C. 225 

brought pint-bottles of Scotch ale, which he placed in the 
coolest part of the cellar. The evening happened to be 
exceedingly hot and sultry, and, as we were all fanning 
ourselves and talking languidly, Abel bethought him of 
his beer. In his thirst, he drank the contents of the first 
bottle, almost at a single draught. 

“‘The effect of beer,’ said he, ‘depends, I think, on 
the commixture of the nourishing principle of the grain 
with the cooling properties of the water. Perhaps, here- 
after, a liquid food of the same character may be invented, 
which shall save us from mastication and all the diseases 
of the teeth.’ 

“ Hollins and Shelldrake, at his invitation, divided a 
bottle between them, and he took a second. The potent 
beverage was not long in acting on a brain so unaccus- 
tomed to its influence. He grew unusually talkative and 
sentimental, in a .few minutes. 

“ ‘ Oh, sing, somebody ! ’ he sighed in a hoarse rap- 
ture : ‘ the night was made for Song.’ 

“ Miss Ringtop, nothing loath, immediately commen- 
ced, ‘When stars are in the quiet skies;’ but scarcely 
had she finished the first verse before Abel interrupted 
her. 

“‘Candor’s the order of the day, isn’t it?’ he asked. 

“ ‘Yes ! ’ ‘ Yes ! ’ two or three answered. 

“ ‘ Well then,’ said he, ‘ candidly, Pauline, you’ve got 
the darn’dest squeaky voice ’ — 

“ Miss Ringtop gave a faint little scream of horror. 

“ ‘ Oh, never mind ! ’ he continued. ‘ We act according 


226 


TALES OF HOME. 


to impulse, don’t we ? And I’ve the impulse to swear ; 
and it’s right. Let Nature have her way. Listen ! 
Damn, damn, damn, damn ! I never knew it was so 
easy. Why, there’s a pleasure in it ! Try it, Pauline ! try 
it on me ! ’ 

“ ‘ Oh-ooh ! ’ was all Miss Ringtop could utter. 

“ ‘ Abel ! Abel ! ’ exclaimed Hollins, ‘ the beer has 
got into your head.’ 

“ ‘ No, it isn’t Beer, — it’s Candor! ’ said Abel. ‘ It’s 
your own proposal, Hollins. Suppose it’s evil to swear : 
isn’t it better I should express it, and be done with it, 
than keep it bottled up to ferment in my mind ? Oh, 
you’re a precious, consistent old humbug, you are ! ’ 

“ And therewith he jumped off the stoop, and went 
dancing awkwardly down towards the water, singing in a 
most unmelodious voice, * ’Tis home where’er the heart 
is.’ 

“ £ Oh, he may fall into the water ! ’ exclaimed Eunice, 
in alarm. 

“ 4 He’s not fool enough to do that,’ said Shelldrake. 

‘ His head is a little light, that’s all. The air will cool 
him down presently.’ 

But she arose and followed him, not satisfied with this 
assurance. Miss Ringtop sat rigidly still. She would 
have received with composure the news of his drowning. 

“ As Eunice’s white dress disappeared among the ce- 
dars crowning the shore, I sprang up and ran after her. 
I knew that Abel was not intoxicated, but simply excited, 
and I had no fear on his account : I obeyed an involun- 


THE EXPERIENCES OF THE A. C. 


tary impulse. On approaching the water, I heard their 
voices — hers in friendly persuasion, his in sentimental 
entreaty, — then the sound of oars in the row-locks. Look- 
ing out from the last clump of cedars, I saw them seated 
in the boat, Eunice at the stern, while Abel, facing her, 
just dipped an oar now and then to keep from drifting 
with the tide. She had found him already in the boat, 
which was loosely chained to a stone. Stepping on one 
of the forward thwarts in her eagerness to persuade him 
to return, he sprang past her, jerked away the chain, and 
pushed off before she could escape. She would have 
fallen, but he caught her and placed her in the stern, and 
then seated himself at the oars. She must have been some- 
what alarmed, but there was only indignation in her voice. 
All this had transpired before my arrival, and the first words 
I heard bound me to the spot and kept me silent. 

“ ‘ Abel, what does this mean ? ’ she asked. 

“ ‘ It means Fate — Destiny ! ’ he exclaimed, rather 
wildly. ‘ Ah, Eunice, ask the night, and the moon, — ask 
the impulse which told you to follow me ! Let us be can- 
did like the old Arcadians we imitate. Eunice, we know 
that we love each other : why should we conceal it any 
longer ? The Angel of Love comes down from the stars 
on his azure wings, and whispers to our hearts. Let us 
confess to each other ! The female heart should not be 
timid, in this pure and beautiful atmosphere of Love 
which we breathe. Come, Eunice ! we are alone : let 
your heart speak to me ! ’ 

“ Ned, if you’ve ever been in love, (we’ll talk of that 


228 


TALES OF HOME. 


after a while,) you will easily understand what tortures I 
endured, in thus hearing him speak. That he should love 
Eunice ! It was a profanation to her, an outrage to me. 
Yet the assurance with which he spoke ! Could she love 
this conceited, ridiculous, repulsive fellow, after all ? I 
almost gasped for breath, as I clinched the prickly boughs 
of the cedars in my hands, and set my teeth, waiting to 
hear her answer. 

I will not hear such language ! Take me back to 
the shore ! ’ she said, in very short, decided tones. 

“ ‘ Oh, Eunice,’ he groaned, (and now, I think he was 
perfectly sober,) ‘ don’t you love me, indeed ? I love you, 
— from my heart I do : yes, I love you. Tell me how 
you feel towards me.’ 

“ * Abel,’ said she, earnestly, * I feel towards you only 
as a friend ; and if you wish me to retain a friendly inter* 
est in you, you must never again talk in this manner. I 
do not love you, and I never shall. Let me go back to 
the house.’ 

“ His head dropped upon his breast, but he rowed back 
to the shore, drew the bow upon the rocks, and assisted 
her to land. Then, sitting down, he groaned forth— 

“ 1 Oh, Eunice, you have broken my heart ! ’ and put- 
ting his big hands to his face, began to cry. 

“ She turned, placed one hand on his shoulder, and 
said in a calm, but kind tone — 

“‘lam very sorry, Abel, but I cannot help it.’ 

“ I slipped aside, that she might not see me, and we 
returned by separate paths. 


THE EXPERIENCES OF THE A. C. 229 

“ I slept very little that night. The conviction which 
I chased away from my mind as often as it returned, that 
our Arcadian experiment was taking a ridiculous and at 
the same time impracticable development, became clearer 
and stronger. I felt sure that our little community could 
not hold together much longer without an explosion. I 
had a presentiment that Eunice shared my impressions. 
My feelings towards her had reached that crisis where a 
declaration was imperative : but how to make it ? It was 
a terrible struggle between my shyness and my affection. 
There was another circumstance in connection with this 
subject, which troubled me not a little. Miss Ringtop 
evidently sought my company, and made me, as much as 
possible, the recipient of her sentimental outpourings. I 
was not bold enough to repel her — indeed I had none of 
that tact which is so useful in such emergencies, — and she 
seemed to misinterpret my submission. Not only was 
her conversation pointedly directed to me, but she looked 
at me, when singing, (especially, ‘ Thou, thou, reign’st in 
this bosom ! ') in a way that made me feel very uncom- 
fortable. What if Eunice should suspect an attachment 
towards her, on my part. What if— oh, horror ! — I had 
unconsciously said or done something to impress Miss 
Ringtop herself with the same conviction ? I shuddered 
as the thought crossed my mind. One thing was very 
certain : this suspense was not to be endured much 
longer. 

“We had an unusually silent breakfast the next morn- 
ing. Abel scarcely spoke, which the others attributed to 


230 


TALES OF HOME. 


a natural feeling of shame, after his display of the pre- 
vious evening. Hollins and Shelldrake discussed Tem- 
perance, with a special view to his edification, and Miss 
Ringtop favored us with several quotations about ‘ the 
maddening bowl,’ — but he paid no attention to them. 
Eunice was pale and thoughtful. I had no doubt in my 
mind, that she was already contemplating a removal from 
Arcadia. Perkins, whose perceptive faculties were by no 
means dull, whispered to me, ‘ Shan’t I bring up some 
porgies for supper ? ’ but I shook my head. ■ I was busy 
with other thoughts, and did not join him in the wood, 
that day. 

“ The forenoon was overcast, with frequent showers. 
Each one occupied his or her room until dinner-time, 
when we met again with something of the old geniality. 
There was an evident effort to restore our former flow of 
good feeling. Abel’s experience with the beer was freely 
discussed. He insisted strongly that he had not been 
laboring under its effects, and proposed a mutual test. He, 
Shelldrake, and Hollins were to drink it in equal meas- 
ures, and compare observations as to their physical sensa- 
tions. The others agreed, — quite willingly, I thought, — 
but I refused. I had determined to make a desperate at- 
tempt at candor, and Abel’s fate was fresh before my 
eyes. 

“ My nervous agitation increased during the day, and 
after sunset, fearing lest I should betray my excitement 
in some way, I walked down to the end of the promon- 
tory, and took a seat on the rocks. The sky had cleared, 


THE EXPERIENCES OF THE A. C. 


231 


and the air was deliciously cool and sweet The Sound 
was spread out before me like a sea, for the Long Island 
shore was veiled in a silvery mist My mind was soothed 
and calmed by the influences of the scene, until the moon 
arose. Moonlight, you know, disturbs — at least, when 
one is in love. (Ah, Ned, I see you understand it !) I 
felt blissfully miserable, ready to cry with joy at the 
knowledge that I loved, and with fear and vexation at my 
cowardice, at the same time. 

“ Suddenly I heard a rustling beside me. Every nerve 
in my body tingled, and I turned my head, with a beating 
and expectant heart. Pshaw ! It was Miss Ringtop, 
who spread her blue dress on the rock beside me, and 
shook back her long curls, and sighed, as she gazed at the 
silver path of the moon on the water. 

“ 4 Oh, how delicious ! ’ she cried. 4 How it seems to 
set the spirit free, and we wander off on the wings of 
Fancy to other spheres ! ’ 

444 Yes,’ said I, ‘It is very beautiful, but sad, when one 
is alone/ 

“ I was thinking of Eunice. 

“ 4 How inadequate,’ she continued , 4 is language to ex- 
press the emotions which such a scene calls up in the 
bosom ! Poetry alone is the voice of the spiritual world, 
and we, who are not poets, must borrow the language of 
the gifted sons of Song. Oh, Enos, I wish you were a 
poet ! But you feel poetry, I know you do. I have seen 
it in your eyes, when I quoted the burning lines of Adeli- 
za Kelley, or the soul-breathings of Gamaliel J. Gawthrop. 


232 


TALES OF HOME. 


In him , particularly, I find the voice of my own nature. 
Do you know his * Night-Whispers ? ’ How it embodies 
the feelings of such a scene as this ! 

‘ ‘ Star-drooping bowers bending down the spaces, 

And moonlit glories sweep star-footed on ; 

And pale, sweet rivers, in their shining races, 

Are ever gliding through the moonlit places, 

With silver ripples on their tranced faces, 

And forests clasp their dusky hands, with low and sullen 
moan ! ’ 

“ * Ah ! ’ she continued, as I made no reply, ‘this is an 
hour for the soul to unveil its most secret chambers ! 
Do you not think, Enos, that love rises superior to all 
conventionalities? that those whose souls are in unison 
should be allowed to reveal themselves to each other, re- 
gardless of the world’s opinions ? ’ 

“ ‘ Yes ! ’ said I, earnestly. 

“ ‘ Enos, do you understand me ? ’ she asked, in a ten- 
der voice — almost a whisper. 

“‘Yes,’ said I, with a blushing confidence of my own 
passion. 

“ ‘ Then,’ she whispered, ‘ our hearts are wholly in uni- 
son. I know you are true, Enos. I know your noble na- 
ture, and I will never doubt you. This is indeed happi- 
ness ! ’ 

“And therewith she laid her head on my shoulder, 
and sighed — 

“ ‘ Life remits his tortures cruel, 

Love illumes his fairest fuel, 

When the hearts that once were dual 
Meet as one, in sweet renewal ! ’ 


THE EXPERIENCES OF THE A. C. 


233 

“ ‘ Miss Ringtop ! ’ I cried, starting away from her, in 
alarm, * you don’t mean that — that — ’ 

“ I could not finish the sentence. 

“‘Yes, Enos, dear Enos! henceforth we belong to 
each other.’ 

“ The painful embarrassment I felt, as her true mean- 
ing shot through my mind, surpassed anything I had im- 
agined, or experienced in anticipation, when planning how 
I should declare myself to Eunice. Miss Ringtop was at 
least ten years older than I, far from handsome (but you 
remember her face,) and so affectedly sentimental, that I, 
sentimental as I was then, was sick of hearing her talk. 
Her hallucination was so monstrous, and gave me such a 
shock of desperate alarm, that I spoke, on the impulse of 
the moment, with great energy, without regarding how her 
feelings might be wounded. 

“ ‘ You mistake ! ’ I exclaimed. ‘ I didn’t mean that, 
— I didn’t understand you. Don’t talk to me that way, 
— don’t look at me in that way, Miss Ringtop ! We were 

never meant for each other — I wasn’t You’re so 

much older — I mean different. It can’t be — no, it can 
never be ! Let us go back to the house : the night is 
cold. ’ 

“ I rose hastily to my feet. She murmured something, 
— what, I did not stay to hear, — but, plunging through 
the cedars, was hurrying with all speed to the house, when, 
half-way up the lawn, beside one of the rocky knobs, I 
met Eunice, who was apparently on her way to join us. 
In my excited mood, after the ordeal through which I had 


34 


TALES OF HOME. 


just passed, everything seemed easy. My usual timidity 
was blown to the four winds. I went directly to her, took 
her hand, and said — 

“ * Eunice, the others are driving me mad with their 
candor ; will you let me be candid, too ? ’ 

“ ‘ I think you are always candid, Enos,’ she an- 
swered. 

“ Even then, if I had hesitated, I should have been 
lost. But I went on, without pausing — 

“ ‘ Eunice, I love you — I have loved you since we first 
met. I came here that I might be near you ; but I must 
leave you forever, and to-night, unless you can trust your 
life in my keeping. God help me, since we have been to- 
gether I have lost my faith in almost everything but you. 
Pardon me, if I am impetuous — different from what I 
have seemed. I have struggled so hard to speak ! I have 
been a coward, Eunice, because of my love. But now I 
have spoken, from my heart of hearts. Look at me: I 
can bear it now. Read the truth in my eyes, before you 
answer.’ 

“ I felt her hand tremble while I spoke. As she 
turned towards me her face, which had been averted, the 
moon shone full upon it, and I saw that tears were upon 
her cheeks. What was said — whether anything was said 
— I cannot tell. I felt the blessed fact, and that was 
enough. That was the dawning of the true Arcadia.” 

Mrs. Billings, who had been silent during this re- 
cital, took her husband’s hand and smiled. Mr. Johnson 
felt a dull pang about the region of his heart. If he had 


THE EXPERIENCES OF THE A. C. 235 

a secret, however, I do not feel justified in betray- 
ing it. 

“ It was late,” Mr. Billings continued, “ before we re- 
turned to the house. I had a special dread of again en- 
countering Miss Ringtop, but she was wandering up and 
down the bluff, under the pines, singing, ( The dream is 
past.’ There was a sound of loud voices, as we approach- 
ed the stoop. Hollins, Shelldrake and his wife, and Abel 
Mallory were sitting together near the door. Perkins 
Brown, as usual, was crouched on the lowest step, with one 
leg over the other, and rubbing the top of his boot with a 
vigor which betrayed to me some secret mirth. He look- 
ed up at me from under his straw hat with the grin of a 
malicious Puck, glanced towards the group, and made a 
curious gesture with his thumb. There were several 
empty pint-bottles on the stoop. 

“ ‘ Now, are you sure you can bear the test ? ’ we heard 
Hollins ask, as we approached. 

“ ‘ Bear it ? Why to be sure ! ’ replied Shelldrake ; ‘ if 
I couldn’t bear it, or if you couldn’t, your theory’s done 
for. Try ! I can stand it as long as you can.’ 

“ ‘ Well, then,’ said Hollins, ‘ I think you are a very 
ordinary man. I derive no intellectual benefit from my 
intercourse with you, but your house is convenient to me. 
I’m under no obligations for your hospitality, however, 
because my company is an advantage to you. Indeed if 
I were treated according to my deserts, you couldn’t do 
enough for me.’ 

“ Mrs. Shelldrake was up in arms. 


236 


TALES OF HOME. 


“‘Indeed,’ she exclaimed, ‘ I think you get as good 
as you deserve, and more too.’ 

“ ‘ Elvira,’ said he, with a benevolent condescension, 
4 1 have no doubt you think so, for your mind belongs to 
the lowest and most material sphere. You have your 
place in Nature, and you fill it ; but it is not for you to 
judge of intelligences which move only on the upper 
planes.’ 

“ 4 Hollins,’ said Shelldrake, 1 Elviry’s a good wife 
and a sensible woman, and I won’t allow you to turn up 
your nose at her.’ 

“ ‘ I am not surprised,’ he answered, ‘ that you should 
fail to stand the test. I didn’t expect it.’ 

“ ‘ Let me try it on you ! ’ cried Shelldrake. ‘ You, 
now, have some intellect, — I don’t deny that, — but not so 
much, by a long shot, as you think you have. Besides 
that, you’re awfully selfish in your opinions. You won’t 
admit that anybody can be right who differs from you. 
You’ve sponged on me for a long time ; but I suppose I’ve 
learned something from you, so we’ll call it even. I think, 
however, that what you call acting according to impulse is 
simply an excuse to cover your own laziness.’ 

“ ‘ Gosh ! that’s it ! ’ interrupted Perkins, jumping up ; 
then, recollecting himself, he sank down on the steps 
again, and shook with a suppressed ‘ Ho ! ho ! ho ! ’ 

“ Hollins, however, drew himself up with an exasper- 
ated air. 

“ * Shelldrake,’ said he, ‘ I pity you. I always knew 
your ignorance, but I thought you honest in your human 


THE EXPERIENCES OF THE A. C. 237 

character. I never suspected you of envy and malice. 
However, the true Reformer must expect to be misunder- 
stood and misrepresented by meaner minds. That love 
which I bear to all creatures teaches me to forgive you. 
Without such love, all plans of progress must fail. Is it 
not so, Abel ? ’ 

“ Shelldrake could only ejaculate the words, ‘ Pity ! 1 
* Forgive ? ’ in his most contemptuous tone ; while Mrs. 
Shelldrake, rocking violently in her chair, gave utterance 
to that peculiar clucking, ‘ ts , ts , ts , ts ,’ whereby certain 
women express emotions too deep for words. 

“ Abel, roused by Hollins’s question, answered, with 
a sudden energy — 

“ ‘ Love ! there is no love in the world. Where will 
you find it? Tell me, and I’ll go there. Love ! I’d like 
to see it ! If all human hearts were like mine, we might 
have an Arcadia ; but most men have no hearts. The 
world is a miserable, hollow, deceitful shell of vanity and 
hypocrisy. No : let us give up. We were born before 
our time : this age is not worthy of us.’ 

“ Hollins stared at the speaker in utter amazement. 
Shelldrake gave a long whistle, and finally gasped out — 

“ ‘ Well, what next ? ’ 

“None of us were prepared for such a sudden and 
complete wreck of our Arcadian scheme. The founda- 
tions had been sapped before, it is true ; but we had not 
perceived it ; and now, in two short days, the whole edi- 
fice tumbled about our ears. Though it was inevitable, 
we felt a shock of sorrow, and a silence fell upon us. 


238 


TALES OF HOME. 


Only that scamp of a Perkins Brown, chuckling and rub- 
bing his boot, really rejoiced. I could have kicked him. 

“ We all went to bed, feeling that the charm of our Ar- 
cadian life was over. I was so full of the new happiness 
of love that I was scarcely conscious of regret. I seemed 
to have leaped at once into responsible manhood, and a 
glad rush of courage filled me at the knowledge that my 
own heart was a better oracle than those — now so shame- 
fully overthrown — on whom I had so long implicitly relied. 
In the first revulsion of feeling, I was perhaps unjust to 
my associates. I see now, more clearly, the causes of 
those vagaries, which originated in a genuine aspiration, 
and failed from an ignorance of the true nature of Man, 
quite as much as from the egotism of the individuals. 
Other attempts at reorganizing Society were made about 
the same time by men of culture and experience, but in 
the A. C. we had neither. Our leaders had caught a few 
half-truths, which, in their minds, were speedily warped 
into errors. I can laugh over the absurdities I helped to 
perpetrate, but I must confess that the experiences of 
those few weeks went far towards making a man of me.” 

“ Did the A. C. break up at once ? ” asked Mr. John- 
son. 

“ Not precisely ; though Eunice and I left the house 
within two days, as we had agreed. We were not married 
immediately, however. Three long years — years of hope 
and mutual encouragement — passed away before that hap- 
py consummation. Before our departure, Hollins had 
fallen into his old manner, convinced, apparently, that 


THE EXPERIENCES OF THE A. C. 239 

Candor must be postponed to a better age of the world. 
But the quarrel rankled in Shelldrake’s mind, and espe- 
cially in that of his wife. I could see by her looks and 
little fidgety ways that his further stay would be very un- 
comfortable. Abel Mallory, finding himself gaining in 
weight and improving in color, had no thought of return- 
ing. The day previous, as I afterwards learned, he had 
discovered Perkins Brown’s secret kitchen in the woods. 

“ ‘ Golly ! ’ said that youth, in describing the circum- 
stance to me, ‘I had to ketch two porgies that day.’ 

“ Miss Ringtop, who must have suspected the new re- 
lation between Eunice and myself, was for the most part 
rigidly silent. If she quoted, it was from the darkest and 
dreariest utterances of her favorite Gamaliel. 

“ What happened after our departure I learned from 
Perkins, on the return of the Shelldrakes to Norridge- 
port, in September Mrs. Shelldrake stoutly persisted in 
refusing to make Hollins’s bed, or to wash his shirts. Her 
brain was dull, to be sure ; but she was therefore all the 
more stubborn in her resentment. He bore this state of 
things for about a week, when his engagements to lecture 
in Ohio suddenly called him away. Abel and Miss Ring- 
top were left to wander about the promontory in company, 
and to exchange lamentations on the hollowness of human 
hopes or the pleasures of despair. Whether it was owing 
to that attraction of sex which would make any man and 
any woman, thrown together on a desert island, finally be- 
come mates, or whether she skilfully ministered to Abel’s 
sentimental vanity, I will not undertake to decide : but 


240 


TALES OF HOME. 


the fact is, they were actually betrothed, on leaving Arca- 
dia. I think he would willingly have retreated, after his 
return to the world ; but that was not so easy. Miss 
Ringtop held him with an inexorable clutch. They were 
not married, however, until just before his departure for 
California, whither she afterwards followed him. She 
died in less than a year, and left him free.” 

“ And what became of the other Arcadians ? ” asked 
Mr. Johnson. 

“ The Shelldrakes are still living in Norridgeport. 
They have become Spiritualists, I understand, and culti- 
vate Mediums. Hollins, when I last heard of him, was a 
Deputy-Surveyor in the New York Custom-House. Per- 
kins Brown is our butcher here in Waterbury, and he often 
asks me — ‘ Do you take chloride of soda on your beef- 
steaks ? ’ He is as fat as a prize ox, and the father of five 
children.” 

“ Enos ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Billings, looking at the 
clock, “ it’s nearly midnight ! Mr. Johnson must be very 
tired, after such a long story. The Chapter of the A. C. 
is hereby closed ! ” 


FRIEND ELI’S DAUGHTER. 

I. 

HE mild May afternoon was draw- 
ing to a close, as Friend Eli Mitch- 
enor reached the top of the long 
hill, and halted a few minutes, to 
allow his horse time to recover 
breath. He also heaved a sigh of 
satisfaction, as he saw again the green, undulating val- 
ley of the Neshaminy, with its dazzling squares of 
young wheat, its brown patches of corn-land, its snowy 
masses of blooming orchard, and the huge, fountain- 
like jets of weeping willow, half concealing the gray 
stone fronts of the farm-houses. He had been ab- 
sent from home only six days, but the time seemed almost 
as long to him as a three years’ cruise to a New Bedford 
whaleman. The peaceful seclusion and pastoral beauty 
of the scene did not consciously appeal to his senses ; but 
he quietly noted how much the wheat had grown during 
his absence, that the oats were up and looking well, that 
Friend Comly’s meadow had been ploughed, and Friend 
Martin had built his half of the line-fence along the top 
of the hill-field. If any smothered delight in the loveliness 



ii 


242 


TALES OF HOME. 


of the spring-time found a hiding-place anywhere in the j 
well-ordered chambers of his heart, it never relaxed or \ 
softened the straight, inflexible lines of his face. As eas- j 
ily could his collarless drab coat and waistcoat have 
flushed with a sudden gleam of purple or crimson. 

Eli Mitchenor was at peace with himself and the 
world — that is, so much of the world as he acknowl- 
edged. Beyond the community of his own sect, and 
a few personal friends who were privileged to live 
on its borders, he neither knew nor cared to know 
much more of the human race than if it belonged to a i 
planet farther from the sun. In the discipline of the 
Friends he was perfect ; he was privileged to sit on the 
high seats, with the elders of the Society ; and the trav- 
elling brethren from other States, who visited Bucks 
County, invariably blessed his house with a family-meet- 
ing. His farm was one of the best on the banks of the 
Neshaminy, and he also enjoyed the annual interest of a 
few thousand dollars, carefully secured by mortgages on 
real estate. His wife, Abigail, kept even pace with him 
in the consideration she enjoyed within the limits of the 
sect ; and his two children, Moses and Asenath, vindicated 
the paternal training by the strictest sobriety of dress and 
conduct. Moses wore the plain coat, even when his ways 
led him among “ the world’s people ; ” and Asenath had 
never been known to wear, or to express a desire for, a 
ribbon of a brighter tint than brown or fawn-color. Friend 
Mitchenor had thus gradually ripened to his sixtieth year 
in an atmosphere of life utterly placid and serene, and 


FRIEND ELI’S DAUGHTER. 


243 


looked forward with confidence to the final change, as a 
translation into a deeper calm, a serener quiet, a prosper- 
ous eternity of mild voices, subdued colors, and suppressed 
emotions. 

He was returning home, in his own old-fashioned 
“ chair,” with its heavy square canopy and huge curved 
springs, from the Yearly Meeting of the Hicksite Friends, 
in Philadelphia. The large bay farm-horse, slow and 
grave in his demeanor, wore his plain harness with an air 
which made him seem, among his fellow-horses, the coun- 
terpart of his master among men. He would no more 
have thought of kicking than the latter would of swearing 
a huge oath. Even now, when the top of the hill was 
gained, and he knew that he was within a mile of the sta- 
ble which had been his home since coithood, he showed 
no undue haste or impatience, but waited quietly, until 
Friend Mitchenor, by_a well-known jerk of the lines, gave 
him the signal to go on. Obedient to the motion, he there- 
upon set forward once more, jogging soberly down the 
eastern slope of the hill, — across the covered bridge, 
where, in spite of the tempting level of the hollow-sound- 
ing floor, he was as careful to abstain from trotting as if 
he had read the warning notice, — along the wooded edge 
of the green meadow, where several cows of his acquaint- 
ance were grazing, — and finally, wheeling around at the 
proper angle, halted squarely in front of the gate which 
gave entrance to the private lane. 

The old stone house in front, the spring-house in a 
green little hollow just below it, the walled garden, with 


244 


TALES OF HOME. 


its clumps of box and lilac, and the vast barn on the left, 
all joining in expressing a silent welcome to their owner, 
as he drove up the lane. Moses, a man of twenty-five, 
left his work in the garden, and walked forward in his 
shirt-sleeves. 

“ Well, father, how does thee do ? ” was his quiet greet- 
ing, as they shook hands. 

“ How’s mother, by this time ? ” asked Eli. 

“ Oh, thee needn’t have been concerned,” said the son. 
“ There she is. Go in : I’ll tend to the horse.” 

Abigail and her daughter appeared on the piazza. The 
mother was a woman of fifty, thin and delicate in frame, 
but with a smooth, placid beauty of countenance which had 
survived her youth. She was dressed in a simple dove- 
colored gown, with book-muslin cap and handkerchief, so 
scrupulously arranged that one might have associated with 
her for six months without ever discovering a spot on the 
former, or an uneven fold in the latter. Asenath, who fol- 
lowed, was almost as plainly attired, her dress being a 
dark-blue calico, while a white pasteboard sun-bonnet, with 
broad cape, covered her head. 

“ Well, Abigail, how art thou ? ” said Eli, quietly giv- 
ing his hand to his wife. 

“ I’m glad to see thee back,” was her simple welcome. 

No doubt they had kissed each other as lovers, but 
Asenath had witnessed this manifestation of affection but 
once in her life — after the burial of a younger sister. The 
fact impressed her with a peculiar sense of sanctity and 
solemnity : it was a caress wrung forth by a season of trib- 


FRIEND ELI’S DAUGHTER. 245 

ulation, and therefore was too earnest to be profaned to 
the uses of joy. So far, therefore, from expecting a pa- 
ternal embrace, she would have felt, had it been given, 
like the doomed daughter of the Gileadite, consecrated to 
sacrifice. 

Both she and her mother were anxious to hear the pro- 
ceedings of the meeting, and to receive personal news of 
the many friends whom Eli had seen ; but they asked few 
questions until the supper-table was ready and Moses had 
come in from the barn. The old man enjoyed talking, 
but it must be in his own way and at his own good time. 
They must wait until the communicative spirit should 
move him. With the first cup of coffee the inspiration 
came. Hovering at first over indifferent details, he gradu- 
ally approached those of more importance, — told of the ad- 
dresses which had been made, the points of discipline dis- 
cussed, the testimony borne, and the appearance and gene- 
alogy of any new Friends who had taken a prominent part 
therein. Finally, at the close of his relation, he said — 

“ Abigail, there is one thing I must talk to thee about. 
Friend Speakman’s partner, — perhaps thee’s heard of him, 
Richard Hilton, — has a son who is weakly. He’s two or 
three years younger than Moses. His mother was con- 
sumptive, and they’re afraid he takes after her. His father 
wants to send him into the country for the summer — to 
some place where he’ll have good air, and quiet, and moder- 
ate exercise, and Friend Speakman spoke of us. I thought 
I’d mention it to thee, and if thee thinks well of it, we can 
send word down next week, when Josiah Comly goes.” 


246 


TALES OF HOME. 


“What does thee think ? ” asked his wife, after a pause 
“ He’s a very quiet, steady young man, Friend Speak- 
man says, and would be very little trouble to thee. I 
thought perhaps his board would buy the new yoke of 
oxen we must have in the fall, and the price of the fat 
ones might go to help set up Moses. But it’s for thee to 
decide.” 

“ I suppose we could take him,” said Abigail, seeing 
that the decision was virtually made already ; “ there’s the 
corner room, which we don’t often use. Only, if he should 
get worse on our hands — ” 

“ Friend Speakman says there’s no danger. He is 
only weak-breasted, as yet, and clerking isn’t good for 
him. I saw the young man at the store. If his looks 
don’t belie him, he’s well-behaved and orderly.” 

So it was settled that Richard Hilton the younger was 
to be an inmate of Friend Mitchenor’s house during the 
summer. 


II. 


At the end of ten days he came. 

In the under-sized, earnest, dark-haired and dark-eyed 
young man of three-and-twenty, Abigail Mitchenor at 
once felt a motherly interest. Having received him as a 
temporary member of the family, she considered him en- 
titled to the same watchful care as if he were in reality an 
invalid son. The ice over an hereditary Quaker nature 
is but a thin crust, if one knows how to break it ; and in 


FRIEND ELl’S DAUGHTER. 247 

Richard Hilton’s case, it was already broken before his ar- 
rival. His only embarrassment, in fact, arose from the 
difficulty which he naturally experienced in adapting him- 
self to the speech and address of the Mitchenor family. 
The greetings of old Eli, grave, yet kindly, of Abigail, 
quaintly familiar and tender, of Moses, cordial and slight- 
ly condescending, and finally of Asenath, simple and nat- 
ural to a degree which impressed him like a new revelation 
in woman, at once indicated to him his position among 
them. His city manners, he felt, instinctively, must be 
unlearned, or at least laid aside for a time. Yet it was 
not easy for him to assume, at such short notice, those 
of his hosts. Happening to address Asenath as “ Miss 
Mitchenor,” Eli turned to him with a rebuking face. 

“ We do not use compliments, Richard,” said he ; “ my 
daughter’s name is Asenath. 

“ I beg pardon. I will try to accustom myself to your 
ways, since you have been so kind as to take me for a 
while,” apologized Richard Hilton. 

“Thee’s under no obligation to us,” said Friend Mitch- 
enor, in his strict sense of justice ; “ thee pays for what 
thee gets.” 

The finer feminine instinct of Abigail led her to inter- 
pose. 

“ We’ll not expect too much of thee, at first, Richard,” 
she remarked, with a kind expression of face, which had 
the effect of a smile : “but our ways are plain and easily 
learned. Thee knows, perhaps, that we’re no respecters 
of persons.” 


248 


TALES OF HOME. 


It was some days, however, before the young man 
could overcome his natural hesitation at the familiarity 
implied by these new forms of speech. “ Friend Mitche- 
nor ” and “ Moses ” were not difficult to learn, but it 
seemed a want of respect to address as “ Abigail ” a wo- 
man of such sweet and serene dignity as the mother, and 
he was fain to avoid either extreme by calling her, with her 
cheerful permission, “ Aunt Mitchenor.” On the other 
hand, his own modest and unobtrusive nature soon won 
the confidence and cordial regard of the family. He oc- 
casionally busied himself in the garden, by way of exer- 
cise, or accompanied Moses to the corn-field or the wood- 
land on the hill, but was careful never to interfere at inop- 
portune times, and willing to learn silently, by the simple 
process of looking on. 

One afternoon, as he was idly sitting on the stone wall 
which separated the garden from the lane, Asenath, attired 
in a new gown of chocolate-colored calico, with a double- 
handled willow work-basket on her arm, issued from 
the house. As she approached him, she paused and 
said — 

“ The time seems to hang heavy on thy hands, Rich- 
ard. If thee’s strong enough to walk to the village and 
back, it might do thee more good than sitting still.” 

Richard Hilton at once jumped down from the wall. 

“ Certainly I am able to go,” said he, “ if you will al- 
low it.” 

“ Haven’t I asked thee ? ” was her quiet reply. 

“ Let me carry your basket,” he said, suddenly, after 


FRIEND ELl’S DAUGHTER. 


249 

they had walked, side by side, some distance down the 
lane. 

“Indeed, I shall not let thee do that. I’m only going 
for the mail, and some little things at the store, that make 
no weight at all. Thee mustn’t think I’m like the young 
women in the city, who, I’m told, if they buy a spool of 
cotton, must have it sent home to them. Besides, thee 
mustn’t over-exert thy strength.” 

Richard Hilton laughed merrily at the gravity with 
which she uttered the last sentence. 

“ Why, Miss — Asenath, I mean — what am I good for; 
if I have not strength enough to carry a basket ? ” 

“ Thee’s a man, I know, and I think a man would al- 
most as lief be thought wicked as weak. Thee can’t help 
being weakly-inclined, and it’s only right that thee should 
be careful of thyself. There’s surely nothing in that that 
thee need be ashamed of.” 

While thus speaking, Asenath moderated her walk, in 
order, unconsciously to her companion, to restrain his 
steps. 

“ Oh, there are the dog’s-tooth violets in blossom ? ” 
she exclaimed, pointing to a shady spot beside the brook ; 
“ does thee know them ? ” 

Richard immediately gathered and brought to her a 
handful of the nodding yellow bells, trembling above their 
large, cool, spotted leaves. 

“ How beautiful they are ! ” said he ; “ but I should 
never have taken them for violets.” 

“ They are misnamed,” she answered. “ The flower is 


250 


TALES OF HOME. 


an Erythronium ; but I am accustomed to the common 
name, and like it. Did thee ever study botany ? ” 

“ Not at all. I can tell a geranium, when I see it, 
and I know a heliotrope by the smell. I could never mis- 
take a red cabbage for a rose, and I can recognize a hol- 
lyhock or a sunflower at a considerable distance. The 
wild flowers are all strangers to me ; I wish I knew some- 
thing about them.” 

“ If thee’s fond of flowers, it would be very easy to 
learn. I think a study of this kind would pleasantly oc- 
cupy thy mind. Why couldn’t thee try ? I would be very 
willing to teach thee what little I know. It’s not much, 
indeed, but all thee wants is a start. See, I will show 
thee how simple the principles are.” 

Taking one of the flowers from the bunch, Asenath, 
as they slowly walked forward, proceeded to dissect it, 
explained the mysteries of stamens and pistils, pollen, 
petals, and calyx, and, by the time they had reached the 
village, had succeeded in giving him a general idea of 
the Linnsean system of classification. His mind took 
hold of the subject with a prompt and profound interest. 
It was a new and wonderful world which suddenly opened 
before him. How surprised he was to learn that there 
were signs by which a poisonous herb could be detected 
from a wholesome one, that cedars and pine-trees blos- 
somed, that the gray lichens on the rocks belonged to the 
vegetable kingdom ! His respect for Asenath’s knowledge 
thrust quite out of sight the restraint which her youth and 
sex had imposed upon him. She was teacher, equal, 


FRIEND ELI’S DAUGHTER. 


251 


friend ; and the simple candid manner which was the 
natural expression of her dignity and purity thoroughly 
harmonized with this relation. 

Although, in reality, two or three years younger than 
he, Asenath had a gravity of demeanor, a calm self-pos- 
session, a deliberate balance of mind, and a repose of 
the emotional nature, which he had never before ob- 
served, except in much older women. She had had, as 
he could well imagine, no romping girlhood, no season 
of careless, light-hearted dalliance with opening life, no 
violent alternation even of the usual griefs and joys of 
youth. The social calm in which she had expanded had 
developed her nature as gently and securely as a sea- 
flower is unfolded below the reach of tides and 
storms. 

She would have been very much surprised if any one 
had called her handsome : yet her face had a mild, unob- 
trusive beauty which seemed to grow and deepen from 
day to day. Of a longer oval than the Greek standard, 
it was yet as harmonious in outline ; the nose was fine 
and straight, the dark-blue eyes steady and untroubled, 
and the lips calmly, but not too firmly closed. Her brown 
hair, parted over a high white forehead, was smoothly 
laid across the temples, drawn behind the ears, and 
twisted into a simple knot. The white cape and sun- 
bonnet gave her face a nun-like character, which set her 
apart, in the thoughts of “ the world’s people ” whom she 
met, as one sanctified for some holy work. She might 
have gone around the world, repelling every rude word, 


252 


TALES OF HOME. 


every bold glance, by the protecting atmosphere of purity 
and truth which inclosed her. 

The days went by, each bringing some new blossom 
to adorn and illustrate the joint studies of the young man 
and maiden. For Richard Hilton had soon mastered 
the elements of botany, as taught by Priscilla Wakefield, 
— the only source of Asenath’s knowledge, — and entered, 
with her, upon the text-book of Gray, a copy of which he 
procured from Philadelphia. Yet, though he had over- 
taken her in his knowledge of the technicalities of the 
science, her practical acquaintance with plants and their 
habits left her still his superior. Day by day, exploring 
the meadows, the woods, and the clearings, he brought 
home his discoveries to enjoy her aid in classifying and 
assigning them to their true places. Asenath had gen- 
erally an hour or two of leisure from domestic duties in 
the afternoons, or after the early supper of summer was 
over ; and sometimes, on “ Seventh-days,” she would be 
his guide to some locality where the rarer plants were 
known to exist. The parents saw this community of in- 
terest and exploration without a thought of misgiving. 
They trusted their daughter as themselves ; or, if any 
possible fear had flitted across their hearts, it was allayed 
by the absorbing delight with which Richard Hilton pur- 
sued his study. An earnest discussion as to whether a 
certain leaf was ovate or lanceolate, whether a certain 
plant belonged to the species scandens or canadensis , was, 
in their eyes, convincing proof that the young brains were 
touched, and therefore ?iot the young hearts. 


FRIEND ELI’S DAUGHTER. 


253 


But love, symbolized by a rose-bud, is emphatically a 
botanical emotion. A sweet, tender perception of beauty, 
such as this study requires, or develops, is at once the 
most subtile and certain chain of communication between 
impressible natures. Richard Hilton, feeling that his 
years were numbered, had given up, in despair, his boy- 
ish dreams, even before he understood them : his fate 
seemed to preclude the possibility of love. But, as he 
gained a little strength from the genial season, the pure 
country air, and the release from gloomy thoughts which 
his rambles afforded, the end was farther removed, and a 
future — though brief, perhaps, still a future — began to 
glimmer before him. If this could be his life, — an end- 
less summer, with a search for new plants every morning, 
and their classification every evening, with Asenath’s help 
on the shady portico of Friend Mitchenor’s house, — he 
could forget his doom, and enjoy the blessing of life un- 
thinkingly. 

The azaleas succeeded to the anemones, the orchis 
and trillium followed, then the yellow gerardias and the 
feathery purple pogonias, and finally the growing gleam 
of the golden-rods along the wood-side and the red um- 
bels of the tall eupatoriums in the meadow announced 
the close of summer. One evening, as Richard, in dis- 
playing his collection, brought to view the blood-red leaf 
of a gum-tree, Asenath exclaimed — 

“ Ah, there is the sign ! It is early, this year.” 

“What sign?” he asked. 

“ That the summer is over. We shall soon have 


254 


TALES OF HOME. 


frosty nights, and then nothing will be left for us except 
the asters and gentians and golden-rods.” 

Was the time indeed so near ? A few more weeks, 
and this Arcadian life would close. He must go back to 
the city, to its rectilinear streets, its close brick walls, its 
artificial, constrained existence. How could he give up 
the peace, the contentment, the hope he had enjoyed 
through the summer ? The question suddenly took a 
more definite form in his mind : How could he give up 
Asenath ? Yes — the quiet, unsuspecting girl, sitting be- 
side him, with her lap full of the September blooms he 
had gathered, was thenceforth a part of his inmost life. 
Pure and beautiful as she was, almost sacred in his re- 
gard, his heart dared to say — “ I need her and claim 
her ! ” 

“ Thee looks pale to-night, Richard,” said Abigail, 
as they took their seats at the supper-table. “ I hope 
thee has not taken cold.” 


III. 

“Will thee go along, Richard? I know where the 
rudbeckias grow,” said Asenath, on the following 
“ Seventh-day ” afternoon. 

They crossed the meadows, and followed the course 
of the stream, under its canopy of magnificent ash and 
plane trees, into a brake between the hills. It was an al- 
most impenetrable thicket, spangled with tall autumnal 
flowers. The eupatoriums, with their purple crowns, 


FRIEND ELI’S DAUGHTER. 


255 


stood like young trees, with an undergrowth of aster and 
blue spikes of lobelia, tangled in a golden mesh of dod- 
der. A strong, mature odor, mixed alike of leaves and 
flowers, and very different from the faint, elusive sweet- 
ness of spring, filled the air. The creek, with a few faded 
leaves dropped upon its bosom, and films of gossamer 
streaming from its bushy fringe, gurgled over the pebbles 
in its bed. Here and there, on its banks, shone the deep 
yellow stars of the flower they sought. 

Richard Hilton walked as in a dream, mechanical !} 7 
plucking a stem of rudbeckia, only to toss it, presently, 
into the water. 

“ Why, Richard ! what’s thee doing ? ” cried Asenath ; 
“ thee has thrown away the very best specimen.” 

“ Let it go,” he answered, sadly. “ I am afraid every- 
thing else is thrown away.” 

“ What does thee mean ? ” she asked, with a look of 
surprised and anxious inquiry. 

“ Don’t ask me, Asenath. Or — yes, I will tell you. 
I must say it to you now, or never afterwards. Do you 
know what a happy life I’ve been leading since I came 
here ? — that I’ve learned what life is, as if I’d never known 
it before ? I want to live, Asenath, — and do you know 
why ? ” 

“ I hope thee will live, Richard,” she said, gently and 
tenderly, her deep-blue eyes dim with the mist of unshed 
tears. 

“ But, Asenath, how am I to live without you ? But 
you can’t understand that, because you do not know what 


256 


TALES OF HOME. 


you are to me. No, you never guessed that all this while 
I’ve been loving you more and more, until now I have no 
other idea of death than not to see you, not to love you, 
not to share your life ! ” 

“ Oh, Richard ! ” 

“ I knew you would be shocked, Asenath. I meant 
to have kept this to myself. You never dreamed of it, 
and I had no right to disturb the peace of your heart. 
The truth is told now, — and I cannot take it back, if I 
wished. But if you cannot love, you can forgive me for 
loving you — forgive me now and every day of my life.” 

He uttered these words with a passionate tenderness, 
standing on the edge of the stream, and gazing into its 
waters. His slight frame trembled with the violence of 
his emotion. Asenath, who had become very pale as he 
commenced to speak, gradually flushed over neck and 
brow as she listened. Her head drooped, the gathered 
flowers fell from her hands, and she hid her face. For a 
few minutes no sound was heard but the liquid gurgling 
of the water, and the whistle of a bird in the thicket be- 
side them. Richard Hilton at last turned, and, in a voice 
of hesitating entreaty, pronounced her name — 

“ Asenath ! ” 

She took away her hands, and slowly lifted her face. 
She was pale, but her eyes met his with a frank, appealing, 
tender expression, which caused his heart to stand still a 
moment. He read no reproach, no faintest thought of 

blame ; but — was it pity ? — was it pardon ? — or 

“We stand before God, Richard,” said she, in a low, 


FRIEND ELl’S DAUGHTER. 


257 


sweet, solemn tone. “ He knows that I do not need to 
forgive thee. If thee requires it, I also require His for- 
giveness for myself.” 

Though a deeper blush now came to cheek and brow, 
she met his gaze with the bravery of a pure and innocent 
heart. Richard, stunned with the sudden and unexpected 
bliss, strove to take the full consciousness of it into a be- 
ing which seemed too narrow to contain it. His first im- 
pulse was to rush forward, clasp her passionately in his 
arms, and hold her in the embrace which encircled, for 
him, the boundless promise of life ; but she stood there, 
defenceless, save in her holy truth and trust, and his heart 
bowed down and gave her reverence. 

“ Asenath,” said he, at last, “ I never dared to hope 
for this. God bless you for those words ! Can you trust 
me ? — can you indeed love me ? ” 

“ I can trust thee, — I do love thee ! ” 

They clasped each other’s hands in one long, clinging 
pressure. No kiss was given, but side by side they walk- 
ed slowly up the dewy meadows, in happy and hallowed 
silence. Asenath’s face became troubled as the old farm- 
house appeared through the trees, 

“ Father and mother must know of this, Richard,” said 
she. “ I am afraid it may be a cross to them.” 

The same fear had already visited his own mind, but 
he answered, cheerfully— 

“ I hope not. I think I have tal^en a new lease of 
life, and shall soon be strong enough to satisfy them. 
Besides, my father is in prosperous business.” 


2 5 8 


TALES OF HOME. 


“ It is not that,” she answered ; “ but thee is not one 
of us.” 

It was growing dusk when they reached the house. 
In the dim candle-light Asenath ’s paleness was not re- 
marked ; and Richard’s silence was attributed to fatigue. 

The next morning the whole family attended meeting 
at the neighboring Quaker meeting-house, in the prepara- 
tion for which, and the various special occupations of 
their “First-day” mornings, the unsuspecting parents 
overlooked that inevitable change in the faces of the lov- 
ers which they must otherwise have observed. After din- 
ner, as Eli was taking a quiet walk in the garden, Rich 
ard Hilton approached him. 

“ Friend Mitchenor,” said he, “ I should like to have 
some talk with thee.” 

“ What is it, Richard ? ” asked the old man, breaking 
off some pods from a seedling radish, and rubbing them 
in the palm of his hand. 

“I hope, Friend Mitchenor,” said the young man, 
scarcely knowing how to approach so important a crisis 
in his life, “ I hope thee has been satisfied with my con- 
duct since I came to live with thee, and has no fault to 
find with me as a man.” 

“Well,” exclaimed Eli, turning around and looking 
up, sharply, “ does thee want a testimony from me ? I’ve 
nothing, that I know of, to say against thee.” 

“ If I were sincerely attached to thy daughter, Friend 
Mitchenor, and she returned the attachment, could thee 
trust her happiness in my hands ?” 


FRIEND ELI’S DAUGHTER. 259 

“ What ! ” cried Eli, straightening himself and glaring 
upon the speaker, with a face too amazed to express any 
other feeling. 

“ Can you confide Asenath’s happiness to my care ? 
I love her with my whole heart and soul, and the fortune 
of my life depends on your answer.” 

The straight lines in the old man’s face seemed to grow 
deeper and more rigid, and his eyes shone with the chill 
glitter of steel. Richard, not daring to say a word more, 
awaited his reply in intense agitation. 

“So!” he exclaimed at last, “this is the way thee’s 
repaid me ! 'I didn’t expect this from thee ! Has thee 
spoken to her ? ” 

“ I have.” 

“ Thee has, has thee ? And I suppose thee’s persua- 
ded her to think as thee does. Thee’d better never have 
come here. When I want to lose my daughter, and can’t 
find anybody else for her, I’ll let thee know.” 

“ What have you against me, Friend Mitchenor ? ” 
Richard sadly asked, forgetting, in his excitement, the 
Quaker speech he had learned. 

“ Thee needn’t use compliments now ! Asenath shall 
be a Friend while I live ; thy fine clothes and merry-mak- 
ings and vanities are not for her. Thee belongs to the 
world, and thee may choose one of the world’s women.” 

« Never ! ” protested Richard ; but Friend Mitchenor 
was already ascending the garden-steps on his way to the 
house. 

The young man, utterly overwhelmed, wandered to 


26 o 


TALES OF HOME. 


the nearest grove and threw himself on the ground. 
Thus, in a miserable chaos of emotion, unable to grasp 
any fixed thought, the hours passed away. Towards even- 
ing, he heard a footstep approaching, and sprang up. It 
was Moses. 

The latter was engaged, with the consent of his parents 
and expected to “pass meeting” in a few weeks. He 
knew what had happened, and felt a sincere sympathy for 
Richard, for whom he had a cordial regard. His face was 
very grave, but kind. 

“ Thee’d better come in, Richard,” said he ; “ the even- 
ings are damp, and I v’e brought thy overcoat. I know 
everything, and I feel that it must be a great cross for 
thee. But thee won’t be alone in bearing it.” 

“ Do you think there is no hope of your father relent- 
ing?” he asked, in a tone of despondency which anticipa- 
ted the answer. 

“ Father’s very hard to move,” said Moses ; “ and 
when mother and Asenath can’t prevail on him, nobody 
else need try. I’m afraid thee must make up thy mind 
to the trial. I’m sorry to say it, Richard, but I think 
thee’d better go back to town.” 

“ I’ll go to-morrow, — go and die ! ” he muttered 
hoarsely, as he followed Moses to the house. 

Abigail, as she saw his haggard face, wept quietly. 
She pressed his hand tenderly, but said nothing. Eli 
was stern and cold as an Iceland rock. Asenath did not 
make her appearance. At supper, the old man and his 
son exchanged a few words about the farm-work to be 


FRIEND ELI’S DAUGHTER. 


261 


done on the morrow, but nothing else was said. Richard 
soon left the room and went up to his chamber to spend 
his last, his only unhappy night at the farm. A yearning, 
pitying look from Abigail accompanied him. 

“ Try and not think hard of us ! ” was her fare- 
well the next morning, as he stepped into the old chair, 
in which Moses was to convey him to the village where 
he should meet the Doylestown stage. So, without a 
word of comfort from Asenath’s lips, without even a last 
look at her beloved face, he was taken away. 

IV. 

True and firm and self-reliant as was the nature of 
Asenath Mitchenor, the thought of resistance to her 
father’s will never crossed her mind. It was fixed that 
she must renounce all intercourse with Richard Hilton ; 
it was even sternly forbidden her to see him again during 
the few hours he remained in the house ; but the sacred 
love, thus rudely dragged to the light and .outraged, was 
still her own. She would take it back into the keeping 
of her heart, and if a day should ever come when he 
would be free to return and demand it of her, he would 
find it there, unwithered, with all the unbreathed perfume 
hoarded in its folded leaves. If that day came not, she 
would at the last give it back to God, saying, “ Father, 
here is Thy most precious gift, bestow it as Thou wilt.” 

As her life had never before been agitated by any 
strong emotion, so it was not outwardly agitated now. 


262 


TALES OF HOME. 


The placid waters of her soul did not heave and toss 
before those winds of passion and sorrow : they lay in 
dull, leaden calm, under a cold and sunless sky. What 
struggles with herself she underwent no one ever knew. 
After Richard Hilton’s departure, she never mentioned 
his name, or referred, in any way, to the summer’s com- 
panionship with him. She performed her household du- 
ties, if not cheerfully, at least as punctually and carefully 
as before ; and her father congratulated himself that the 
unfortunate attachment had struck no deeper root. Abi- 
gail’s finer sight, however, was not deceived by this exter- 
nal resignation. She noted the faint shadows under the 
eyes, the increased whiteness of the temples, the uncon- 
scious traces of pain which sometimes played about the 
dimpled corners of the mouth, and watched her daughter 
with a silent, tender solicitude. 

The wedding of Moses was a severe test of Asenath’s 
strength, but she stood the trial nobly, performing all the 
duties required by her position with such sweet compo- 
sure that many of the older female Friends remarked to 
Abigail, “ How womanly Asenath has grown ! ” Eli 
Mitchenor noted, with peculiar satisfaction, that the eyes of 
the young Friends — some of them of great promise in the 
sect, and well endowed with worldly goods — followed her 
admiringly. “ It will not be long,” he thought, “ before 
she is consoled.” 

Fortune seemed to favor his plans, and justify his 
harsh treatment of Richard Hilton. There were unfav- 
orable accounts of the young man’s conduct. His father 


FRIEND ELI’S DAUGHTER. 263 

had died during the winter, and he was represented as 
having become very reckless and dissipated. These re- 
ports at last assumed such a definite form that Friend 
Mitchenor brought them to the notice of his family. 

“ I met Josiah Comly in the road,” said he, one day 
at dinner. “ He’s just come from Philadelphia, and 
brings bad news of Richard Hilton. He’s taken to drink, 
and is spending in wickedness the money his father left 
him. His friends have a great concern about him, but it 
seems he’s not to be reclaimed.” 

Abigail looked imploringly at her husband, but he 
either disregarded or failed to understand her look. As- 
enath, who had grown very pale, steadily met her father’s 
gaze, and said, in a tone which he had never yet heard 
from her lips — 

“Father, will thee please never mention Richard Hil- 
ton’s name when I am by ? ” 

The words were those of entreaty, but the voice was 
that of authority. The old man was silenced by a new 
and unexpected power in his daughter’s heart : he sud- 
denly felt that she was not a girl, as heretofore, but a 
woman, whom he might persuade, but could no longer 
compel. 

“ It shall be as thee wishes, Asenath,” he said ; “ we 
had best forget him.” 

Of their friends, however, she could not expect this 
reserve, and she was doomed to hear stories of Richard 
which clouded and embittered her thoughts of him. And 
a still severer trial was in store. She accompanied her 


264 


TALES OF HOME. 


father, in obedience to his wish, and against her own de- 
sire, to the Yearly Meeting in Philadelphia. It has 
passed into a proverb that the Friends, on these occa- 
sions, always bring rain with them ; and the period of her 
visit was no exception to the rule. The showery days of 
“ Yearly Meeting Week” glided by, until the last, and she 
looked forward with relief to the morrow’s return to 
Bucks County, glad to have escaped a meeting with 
Richard Hilton, which might have confirmed her fears 
and could but have given her pain in any case. 

As she and her father joined each other, outside the 
meeting-house, at the close of the afternoon meeting, a 
light rain was falling. She took his arm, under the capa- 
cious umbrella, and they were soon alone in the wet 
streets, on their way to the house of the Friends who en- 
tertained them. At a crossing, where the water pouring 
down the gutter towards the Delaware, caused them to 
halt, a man, plashing through the flood, staggered towards 
them. Without an umbrella, with dripping, disordered 
clothes, yet with a hot, flushed face, around which the 
long black hair hung wildly, he approached, singing to 
himself with maudlin voice a song that would have been 
sweet and tender in a lover’s mouth. Friend Mitchenor 
drew to one side, lest his spotless drab should be brushed 
by the unclean reveller ; but the latter, looking up, stop- 
ped suddenly face to face with them. 

“ Asenath ! ” he cried, in a voice whose anguish 
pierced through the confusion of his senses, and struck 
down into the sober quick of his soul. 


FRIEND ELl’S DAUGHTER. 265 

“ Richard ! ” she breathed, rather than spoke, in a low, 
terrified voice. 

It was indeed Richard Hilton who stood before her, 
or rather — as she afterwards thought, in recalling the in- 
terview — the body of Richard Hilton possessed by an 
evil spirit. His cheeks burned with a more than hectic 
red, his eyes were wild and bloodshot, and though the 
recognition had suddenly sobered him, an impatient, 
reckless devil seemed to lurk under the set mask of his 
features. 

“ Here I am, Asenath,” he said at length, hoarsely. 
“ I said it was death, didn’t I ? Well, it’s worse than 
death, I suppose ; but what matter? You can’t be more 
lost to me now than you were already. This is thy doing, 
Friend Eli,” he continued, turning to the old man, with a 
sneering emphasis on the “thy.” “ I hope thee’s satisfied 
with thy work ! 

Here he burst into a bitter, mocking laugh, which it 
chilled Asenath’s blood to hear. 

The old man turned pale. “ Come away, child ! ” said 
he, tugging at her arm. But she stood firm, strengthened 
for the moment by a solemn feeling of duty which tram- 
pled down her pain. 

“ Richard,” she said, with the music of an immeasur- 
able sorrow in her voice, “ oh, Richard, what has thee 
done ? Where the Lord commands resignation, thee has 
been rebellious ; where he chasteneth to purify, thee turns 
blindly to sin. I had not expected this of thee, Richard ; 
I thought thy regard for me was of the kind which would 


12 


266 


TALES OF HOME. 


have helped and uplifted thee, — not through me, as an 
unworthy object, but through the hopes and the pure de- 
sires of thy own heart I expected that thee would so 
act as to justify what I felt towards thee, not to make my 
affection a reproach, — oh, Richard, not to cast over my 
heart the shadow of thy sin ! ” 

The wretched young man supported himself against 
the post of an awning, buried his face in his hands, and 
wept passionately. Once or twice he essayed to speak, 
but his voice was choked by sobs, and, after a look from 
the streaming eyes which Asenath could scarcely bear to 
meet, he again covered his face. A stranger, coming 
down the street, paused out of curiosity. “ Come, come ! ” 
cried Eli, once more, eager to escape from the scene. 
His daughter stood still, and the man slowly passed on. 

Asenath could not thus leave her lost lover, in his des- 
pairing grief. She again turned to him, her own tears 
flowing fast and free. 

“ I do not judge thee, Richard, but the words that 
passed between us give me a right to speak to thee. It 
was hard to lose sight of thee then, but it is still 
harder for me to see thee now. If the sorrow and pity I 
feel could save thee, I would be willing never to know any 
other feelings. I would still do anything for thee except 
that which thee cannot ask, as thee now is, and I could 
not give. Thee has made the gulf between us so wide 
that it cannot be crossed. But I can now weep for thee 
and pray for thee as a fellow-creature whose soul is still 
precious in the sight of the Lord. Fare thee well ! ” 


FRIEND ELI’S DAUGHTER. 


267 


He seized the hand she extended, bowed down, and 
sh6wered mingled tears and kisses upon it. Then, with a 
wild sob in his throat, he started up and rushed down the 
street, through the fast-falling rain. The father and 
daughter walked home in. silence. Eli had heard every 
word that was spoken, and felt that a spirit whose utteran- 
ces he dared not question had visited Asenath’s tongue. 

She, as year after year went by, regained the peace 
and patience which give a sober cheerfulness to life. The 
pangs of her heart grew dull and transient ; but there were 
two pictures in her memory which never blurred in out- 
line or faded in color : one, the brake of autumn flowers 
under the bright autumnal sky, with bird and stream mak- 
ing accordant music to the new voice of love ; the other 
a rainy street, with a lost, reckless man leaning against an 
awning-post, and staring in her face with eyes whose un- 
utterable woe, when she dared to recall it, darkened the 
beauty of the earth, and almost shook her trust in the 
providence of God. 


V. 

Year after year passed by, but not without bringing 
change to the Mitchenor family. Moses had moved to 
Chester County soon after his marriage, and had a good 
farm of his own. At the end of ten years Abigail died ; 
and the old man, who had not only lost his savings by an 
unlucky investment, but was obliged to mortgagehis farm, 
finally determined to sell it and join his son. He was 


268 


TALES OF HOME. 


getting too old to manage it properly, impatient under the 
unaccustomed pressure of debt, and depressed by the loss 
of the wife to whom, without any outward show of tender- 
ness, he was, in truth, tenderly attached. He missed her 
more keenly in the places where she had lived and moved 
than in a neighborhood without the memory of her presence. 
The pang with which he parted from his home was weak- 
ened by the greater pang which had preceded it. 

It was a harder trial to Asenath. She shrank from 
the encounter with new faces, and the necessity of crea- 
ting new associations. There was a quiet satisfaction in 
the ordered, monotonous round of her life, which might 
be the same elsewhere, but here alone was the nook which 
held all the morning sunshine she had ever known. Here 
still lingered the halo of the sweet departed summer, — 
here still grew the familiar wild-flowers which the first 
Richard Hilton had gathered. This was the Paradise in 
which the Adam of her heart had dwelt, before his fall. 
Her resignation and submission entitled her to keep those 
pure and perfect memories, though she was scarcely con- 
scious of their true charm. She did not dare to express 
to herself, in words, that one everlasting joy of woman’s 
heart, through all trials and sorrows — “ I have loved, I 
have been beloved.” 

On the last “ First-day ” before their departure, she 
walked down the meadows to the lonely brake between 
the hills. It was the early spring, and the black buds of 
the ash had just begun to swell. The maples were dusted 
with crimson bloom, and the downy catkins of the swamp- 


FRIEND ELI’S DAUGHTER. 269 

willow dropped upon the stream and floated past her, as 
once the autumn leaves. In the edges of the thickets 
peeped forth the blue, scentless violet, the fairy cups of 
the anemone, and the pink-veined bells of the miskodeed. 
The tall blooms through which the lovers walked still 
slept in the chilly earth ; but the sky above her was mild 
and blue, and the remembrance of the day came back to 
her with a delicate, pungent sweetness, like the perfume 
of the trailing arbutus in the air around her. In a shel- 
tered, sunny nook, she found a single erythronium, lured 
forth in advance of its proper season, and gathered it as a 
relic of the spot, which she might keep without blame. 
As she stooped to pluck it, her own face looked up at her 
out of a little pool filled by the spring rains. Seen against 
the reflected sky, it shone with a soft radiance, and the 
earnest eyes met hers, as if it were her young self, evoked 
from the past, to -bid her farewell. “Farewell!” she 
whispered, taking leave at once, as she believed, of youth 
and the memory of love. 

During those years she had more than once been 
sought in marriage, but had steadily, though kindly, re- 
fused. Once, when the suitor was a man whose character 
and position made the union very desirable in Eli Mitch- 
enor’s eyes, he ventured to use his paternal influence. 
Asenath’s gentle resistance was overborne by his arbitrary 
force of will, and her protestations were of no avail. 

“ Father,” she finally said, in the tone which he had 
once heard and still remembered, thee can take away, 
but thee cannot give.” 


270 TALES OF HOME. 

He never mentioned the subject again. 

Richard Hilton passed out of her knowledge shortly 
after her meeting with him in Philadelphia. She heard, 
indeed, that his headlong career of dissipation was not 
arrested, — that his friends had given him up as hopelessly 
ruined, — and, finally, that he had left the city. After 
that, all reports ceased. He was either dead, or reclaim- 
ed and leading a better life, somewhere far away. Dead, 
she believed — almost hoped ; for in that case might he 
not now be enjoying the ineffable rest and peace which 
she trusted might be her portion ? It was better to think 
of him as a purified spirit, waiting to meet her in a holier 
communion, than to know that he was still bearing the 
burden of a soiled and blighted life. In any case, her 
own future was plain and clear. It was simply a pro- 
longation of the present — an alternation of seed-time 
and harvest, filled with humble duties and cares, until 
the Master should bid her lay down her load and follow 
Him. 

Friend Mitchenor bought a small cottage adjacent to 
his son’s farm, in a community which consisted mostly of 
Friends, and not far from the large old meeting-house in 
which the Quarterly Meetings were held. He at once 
took his place on the upper seat, among the elders, most 
of whom he knew already, from having met them, year 
after year, in Philadelphia. The charge of a few acres of 
ground gave him sufficient occupation ; the money left to 
him after the sale of his farm was enough to support him 
comfortably ; and a late Indian summer of contentment 


FRIEND ELI’S DAUGHTER. 


271 


seemed now to have come to the old man. He was done 
with the earnest business of life. Moses was gradually 
taking his place, as father and Friend ; and Asenath would 
be reasonably provided for at his death. As his bodily 
energies decayed, his imperious temper softened, his mind 
became more accessible to liberal influences, and he even 
cultivated a cordial friendship with a neighboring farmer 
who was one of “ the world’s people.” Thus, at seventy-five 
he was really younger, because tenderer of heart and more 
considerate, than he had been at sixty. 

Asenath was now a woman of thirty-five, and suitors 
had ceased to approach her. Much of her beauty still 
remained, but her face had become thin and wasted, and 
the inevitable lines were beginning to form around her 
eyes. Her dress was plainer than ever, and she wore the 
scoop-bonnet of drab silk, in which no woman can seem 
beautiful, unless, she be very old. She was calm and grave 
in her demeanor, save that her perfect goodness and be- 
nevolence shone through and warmed her presence ; but, 
when earnestly interested, she had been known to speak her 
mind so clearly and forcibly that it was generally surmised 
among the Friends that she possessed “ a gift,” which 
might, in time, raise her to honor among them. To the 
children of Moses she was a good genius, and a word from 
« Aunt ’Senath ” oftentimes prevailed when the authority 
of the parents was disregarded. In them she found a new 
source of happiness ; and when her old home on the 
Neshaminy had been removed a little farther into the past, 
so that she no longer looked, with every morning’s sun, 


272 


TALES OF HOME. 


for some familiar feature of its scenery, her submission 
brightened into a cheerful content with life. 

It was summer, and Quarterly-Meeting Day had ar- 
rived. There had been rumors of the expected presence 
of “ Friends from a distance,” and not only those of the 
district, but most of the neighbors who were not connected 
with the sect, attended. By the by-road, through the 
woods, it was not more than half a mile from Friend Mitch- 
enor’s cottage to the meeting-house, and Asenath, leaving 
her father to be taken by Moses in his carriage, set out 
on foot. It was a sparkling, breezy day, and the forest 
was full of life. Squirrels chased each other along the 
branches of the oaks, and the air was filled with fragrant 
odors of hickory-leaves, sweet fern, and spice-wood. 
Picking up a flower here and there, Asenath walked on- 
ward, rejoicing alike in shade and sunshine, grateful for 
all the consoling beauty which the earth offers to a lonely 
heart That serene content which she had learned to call 
happiness had filled her being until the dark canopy was 
lifted and the waters took back their transparency under 
a cloudless sky. 

Passing around to the “women’s side ” of the meeting- 
house, she mingled with her friends, who were exchanging 
information concerning the expected visitors. Micajah Mor- 
rill had not arrived, they said, but Ruth Baxter had spent 
the last night at Friend Way’s, and would certainly be 
there. Besides, there were Friend Chandler, from Nine 
Partners, and Friend Carter, from Maryland : they had 
been seen on the ground. Friend Carter was said to have 


FRIEND ELI’S DAUGHTER. 


273 


a wonderful gift, — Mercy Jackson had heard him once, in 
Baltimore. The Friends there had been a little exercised 
about him, because they thought he was too much in- 
clined to “the newness,” but it was known that the Spirit 
had often manifestly led him. Friend Chandler had vis- 
ited Yearly Meeting once, they believed. He was an old 
man, and had been a personal friend of Elias Hicks. 

At the appointed hour they entered the house. After 
the subdued rustling which ensued upon taking their seats, 
there was an interval of silence, shorter than usual, be- 
cause it was evident that many persons would feel the 
promptings of the Spirit. Friend Chandler spoke first, 
and was followed by Ruth Baxter, a frail little woman, 
with a voice of exceeding power. The not unmelodious 
chant in which she delivered her admonitions rang out, at 
times, like the peal of a trumpet. Fixing her eyes on va- 
cancy, with her hands on the wooden rail before her, and 
her body slightly swaying to and fro, her voice soared far 
aloft at the commencement of every sentence, gradually 
dropping, through a melodious scale of tone, to the close. 
She resembled an inspired prophetess, an aged Deborah, 
crying aloud in the valleys of Israel. 

The last speaker was Friend Carter, a small man, not 
more than forty years of age. His face was thin and in- 
tense in its expression, his hair gray at the temples, 
and his dark eye almost too restless for a child of 
“the stillness and the quietness.” His voice, though not 
loud, was clear and penetrating, with an earnest, sympa- 
thetic quality, which arrested, not the ear alone, but the 


274 


TALES OF HOME. 


serious attention of the auditor. His delivery was but 
slightly marked by the peculiar rhythm of the Quaker 
preachers ; and this fact, perhaps, increased the effect of 
his words, through the contrast with those who preceded 
him. 

His discourse was an eloquent vindication of the law 
of kindness, as the highest and purest manifestation of 
true Christian doctrine. The paternal relation of God to 
man was the basis of that religion which appealed directly 
to the heart : so the fraternity of each man with his fellow 
was its practical application. God pardons the repentant 
sinner : we can also pardon, where we are offended ; we 
can pity, where we cannot pardon. Both the good and 
the bad principles generate their like in others. Force 
begets force ; anger excites a corresponding anger ; but 
kindness awakens the slumbering emotions even of an evil 
heart. Love may not always be answered by an equal 
love, but it has never yet created hatred. The testimony 
which Friends bear against war, he said, is but a general 
assertion, which has no value except in so far as they 
manifest the principle of peace in their daily lives — in the 
exercise of pity, of charity, of forbearance, and Christian 
love. 

The words of the speaker sank deeply into the hearts 
of his hearers. There was an intense hush, as if in truth 
the Spirit had moved him to speak, and every sentence 
was armed with a sacred authority. Asenath Mitchenor 
looked at him, over the low partition which divided her 
and her sisters from the men’s side, absorbed in his rapt 


275 


FRIEND ELl’S DAUGHTER. 

earnestness and truth. She forgot that other hearers were 
present : he spake to her alone. A strange spell seemed 
to seize upon her faculties and chain them at his feet : had 
he beckoned to her, she would have arisen and walked to 
his side. 

Friend Carter warmed and deepened as he went on. 
H I feel moved to-day,” he said, — “ moved, I know not 
why, but I hope for some wise purpose, — to relate to you 
an instance of Divine and human kindness which has come 
directly to my own knowledge. A young man of delicate 
constitution, whose lungs were thought to be seriously af- 
fected, was sent to the house of a Friend in the country, 
in order to try the effect of air and exercise.” 

Asenath almost ceased to breathe, in the intensity with 
which she gazed and listened. Clasping her hands tightly 
in her lap to prevent them from trembling, and steadying 
herself against the back of the seat, she heard the story 
of her love for Richard Hilton told by the lips of a 
stranger ! — not merely of his dismissal from the house, but 
of that meeting in the street, at which only she and her 
father were present ! Nay, more, she heard her own 
words repeated, she heard Richard’s passionate outburst 
of remorse described in language that brought his living 
face before her ! She gasped for breath — his face was 
before her ! The features, sharpened by despairing grief, 
which her memory recalled, had almost anticipated the 
harder lines which fifteen years had made, and which now, 
with a terrible shock and choking leap of the heart, she rec- 
ognized. Her senses faded, and she would have fallen 


276 


TALES OF HOME. 


from her seat but for the support of the partition against 
which she leaned. Fortunately, the women near her were 
too much occupied with the narrative to notice her condi- 
tion. Many of them wept silently, with their handker- 
chiefs pressed over their mouths. 

The first shock of death-like faintness passed away, 
and she clung to the speaker’s voice, as if its sound alone 
could give her strength to sit still and listen further. 

“ Deserted by his friends, unable to stay his feet on 
the evil path,” he continued, “the young man left his 
home and went to a city in another State. But here it 
was easier to find associates in evil than tender hearts 
that might help him back to good. He was tired of 
life, and the hope of a speedier death hardened him in 
his courses. But, my friends, Death never comes to 
those who wickedly seek him. The Lord withholds de- 
struction from the hands that are madly outstretched to 
grasp it, and forces His pity and forgiveness on the un- 
willing soul. Finding that it was the principle of life 
which grew stronger within him, the young man at last 
meditated an awful crime. The thought of self-destruc- 
tion haunted him day and night. He lingered around 
the wharves, gazing into the deep waters, and was re- 
strained from the deed only by the memory of the last 
loving voice he had heard. One gloomy evening, when 
even this memory had faded, and he awaited the approach- 
ing darkness to make his design secure, a hand was laid 
on his arm. A man in the simple garb of the Friends 
stood beside him, and a face which reflected the kindness 


FRIEND ELI’S DAUGHTER. 


277 

of the Divine Father looked upon him. ‘ My child,’ said 
he, * I am drawn to thee by the great trouble of thy mind. 
Shall I tell thee what it is thee meditates ? ’ The young 
man shook his head. ‘ I will be silent, then, but I will 
save thee. I know the human heart, and its trials and 
weaknesses, and it may be put into my mouth to give thee 
strength.’ He took the young man’s hand, as if he had 
been a little child, and led him to his home. He heard 
the sad story, from beginning to end ; and the young 
man wept upon his breast, to hear no word of reproach, 
but only the largest and tenderest pity bestowed upon 
him. They knelt down, side by side, at midnight ; and 
the Friend’s right hand was upon his head while they 
prayed. 

“ The young man was rescued from his evil ways, to 
acknowledge still further the boundless mercy of Provi- 
dence. The dissipation wherein he had recklessly sought 
death was, for him, a marvellous restoration to life. His 

lun^s had become sound and free from the tendency to 

» 

disease. The measure of his forgiveness was almost more 
than he could bear. He bore his cross thenceforward with 
a joyful resignation, and was mercifully drawn nearer and 
nearer to the Truth, until, in the fulness of his convictions, 
he entered into the brotherhood of the Friends. 

, “ I have been powerfully moved to tell you this story.” 
Friend Carter concluded, “from a feeling that it may be 
needed, here, at this time, to influence some heart trem- 
bling in the balance Who is there among you, my friends, 
that may not snatch a brand from the burning ! Oh, be- 


278 


TALES OF HOME. 


lieve that pity and charity are the most effectual weap- 
ons given into the hands of us imperfect mortals, and 
leave the awful attribute of wrath in the hands of the 
Lord ! ” 

He sat down, and dead silence ensued. Tears of emo- 
tion stood in the eyes of the hearers, men as well as women, 
and tears of gratitude and thanksgiving gushed warmly 
from those of Asenath. An ineffable peace and joy de- 
scended upon her heart. 

When the meeting broke up, Friend Mitchenor, who 
had not recognized Richard Hilton, but had heard the 
story with feelings which he endeavored in vain to control, 
approached the preacher. 

“ The Lord spoke to me this day through thy lips,” 
said he ; “ will thee come to one side, and hear me a min- 
ute ? ” 

“ Eli Mitchenor ! ” exclaimed Friend Carter ; “ Eli ! I 
knew not thee was here ! Doesn’t thee know me ? ” 

The old man stared in astonishment. “ It seems like 
a face I ought to know,” he said, “but I can’t place thee.” 
They withdrew to the shade of one of the poplars. Friend 
Carter turned again, much moved, and, grasping the old 
man’s hands in his own, exclaimed — 

“ Friend Mitchenor, I was called upon to-day to speak 
of myself. I am — or, rather, I was — the Richard Hilton 
whom thee knew.” 

Friend Mitchenor’s face flushed with mingled emotions 
of shame and joy, and his grasp on the preacher’s hands 
tightened. 


FRIEND ELI’S DAUGHTER. 


279 


“ But thee calls thyself Carter ? ” he finally said. 

“ Soon after I was saved,” was the reply, “ an aunt on 
the mother’s side died, and left her property to me, on con- 
dition that I should take her name. I was tired of my 
own then, and to give it up seemed only like losing my 
former self ; but I should like to have it back again now.” 

“ Wonderful are the ways of the Lord, and past find- 
ing out ! ” said the old man. “ Come home with me, 
Richard, — come for my sake, for there is a concern on my 
mind until all is clear between us. Or, stay, — will thee 
walk home with Asenath, while I go with Moses ? ” 

“ Asenath ? ” 

“ Yes. There she goes, through the gate. Thee can 
easily overtake her. I ’m coming, Moses ! ” — and he hur- 
ried away to his son’s carriage, which was approaching. 

Asenath felt that it would be impossible for her to meet 
Richard Hilton there. She knew not why his name had 
been changed ; he had not betrayed his identity with the 
young man of his story ; he evidently did not wish it to be 
known, and an unexpected meeting with her might sur- 
prise him into an involuntary revelation of the fact. It 
was enough for her that a saviour had arisen, and her lost 
Adam was redeemed, — that a holier light than the autumn 
sun’s now rested, and would forever rest, on the one land- 
scape of her youth. Her eyes shone with the pure bright- 
ness of girlhood, a soft warmth colored her cheek and 
smoothed away the coming lines of her brow, and her step 
was light and elastic as in the old time. 

Eager to escape from the crowd, she crossed the high- 


280 


TALES OF HOME. 


way, dusty with its string of returning carriages, and enter- 
ed the secluded lane. The breeze had died away, the air 
was full of insect-sounds, and the warm light of the sink- 
ing sun fell upon the woods and meadows. Nature seem- 
ed penetrated with a sympathy with her own inner peace. 

But the crown of the benignant day was yet to come. 
A quick footstep followed her, and ere long a voice, near 
at hand, called her by name. 

She stopped, turned, and for a moment they stood 
silent, face to face. 

“ I knew thee, Richard ! ” at last she said, in a trem- 
bling voice ; “ may the Lord bless thee ! ” 

Tears were in the eyes of both. 

“ He has blessed me,” Richard answered, in a reverent 
tone ; “ and this is His last and sweetest mercy. Asenath, 
let me hear that thee forgives me.” 

“ I have forgiven thee long ago, Richard — forgiven, 
but not forgotten.” 

The hush of sunset was on the forest, as they walked 
onward, side by side, exchanging their mutual histories. 
Not a leaf stirred in the crowns of the tall trees, and the 
dusk, creeping along between their stems, brought w r ith it 
a richer woodland odor. Their voices were low and sub- 
dued, as if an angel of God were hovering in the shadows, 
and listening, or God Himself looked down upon them 
from the violet sky. 

At last Richard stopped. 

“ Asenath,” said he, “ does thee remember that spot 
on the banks of the creek, where the rudbeckias grew ? ” 


FRIEND ELI’S DAUGHTER. 


28l 


“ I remember it,” she answered, a girlish blush rising 
to her face. 

“ If I were to say to thee now what I said to thee 
there, what would be thy answer?” 

Her words came brokenly. 

“ I would say to thee, Richard , — f I can trust thee, — 
I do love thee ! ’ ” 

“ Look at me, Asenath.” 

Her eyes, beaming with a clearer light than even then 
when she first confessed, were lifted to his. She placed 
her hands gently upon his shoulders, and bent her head 
upon his breast. He tenderly lifted it again, and, for the 
first time, her virgin lips knew the kiss of man. 










MISS BARTRAM’S TROUBLE. 


I. 


T was a day of unusual excitement at the 
Rambo farm-house. On the farm, it is 
true, all things were in their accustomed 
order, and all growths did their accustomed 
credit to the season. The fences were in 
good repair ; the cattle were healthy and 
gave promise of the normal increase, and the young corn 
was neither strangled with weeds nor assassinated by 
cut-worms. Old . John Rambo was gradually allowing 
his son, Henry, to manage in his stead, and the latter 
shrewdly permitted his father to believe that he exercised 
the ancient authority. Leonard Clare, the strong young fel- 
low who had been taken from that shiftless adventurer, his 
father, when a mere child, and brought up almost as one 
of the family, and who had worked as a joiner’s apprentice 
during the previous six months, had come back for the 
harvest work ; so the Rambos were forehanded, and 
probably as well satisfied as it is possible for Pennsyl- 
vania farmers to be. 

In the house, also, Mrs. Priscilla Rambo was not se- 
verely haunted by the spectre of any neglected duty. The 



284 


TALES OF HOME. 


simple regular routine of the household could not be 
changed under her charge ; each thing had its appropriate 
order of performance, must be done, and was done. If 
the season were backward, at the time appointed for white- 
washing or soap- making, so much the worse for the sea- 
son ; if the unhatched goslings were slain by thunder, 
she laid the blame on the thunder. And if — but no, it is 
quite impossible to suppose that, outside of those two 
inevitable, fearful house-cleaning weeks in each year, there 
could have been any disorder in the cold prim, varnish- 
odored best rooms, sacred to company. 

It was Miss Betty Rambo, whose pulse beat some ten 
strokes faster than its wont, as she sat down with the rest 
to their early country dinner. Whether her brother Hen- 
ry’s participated in the accelerated movement could not 
be guessed from his demeanor. She glanced at him now 
and then, with bright eyes and flushed cheeks, eager to 
speak yet shrinking from the half magisterial air which was 
beginning to supplant his old familiar banter. Henry was 
changing with his new responsibility, as she admitted to 
herself with a sort of dismay ; he had the airs of an in- 
dependent farmer, and she remained only a farmer’s daugh- 
ter, — without any acknowledged rights, until she should 
acquire them all, at a single blow, by marriage. 

Nevertheless, he must have felt what was in her mind ; 
for, as he cut out the quarter of a dried apple pie, he said 
carelessly : 

“ I must go down to the Lion, this afternoon. There’s 
a fresh drove of Maryland cattle just come.” 


MISS bartram’s trouble. 


285 


u Oh Harry ! ” cried Betty, in real distress. 

“ I know,” he answered ; “ but as Miss Bartram is going 
to stay two weeks, she’ll keep. She’s not like a drove, 
that’s here one day, and away the next. Besides, it is 
precious little good I shall have of her society, until you 
two have used up all your secrets and small talk. I know 
how it is with girls. Leonard will drive over to meet the 
train.” 

“ Won’t I do on a pinch ? ” Leonard asked. 

“ Oh, to be sure,” said Betty, a little embarrassed, 
6: only Alice — Miss Bartram — might expect Harry, because 
her brother came for me when I went up.” 

“If that’s all, make yourself easy, Bet,” Henry an- 
swered, as he rose from the table. “ There’s a mighty dif- 
ference between here and there. Unless you mean to 
turn us into a town family while she stays — high quality, 
eh?” 

“ Go along to your cattle ! there’s not much quality, 
high or low, where you are.” 

Betty was indignant ; but the annoyance exhausted it- 
self healthfully while she was clearing away the dishes and 
restoring the room to its order, so that when Leonard 
drove up to the gate with the lumbering, old-fashioned 
carriage two hours afterwards, she came forth calm, cheer- 
ful, fresh as a pink in her pink muslin, and entirely the 
good, sensible country-girl she was. 

Two or three years before, she and Miss Alice Bartram, 
daughter of the distinguished lawyer in the city, had been 
room-mates at the Nereid Seminary for Young Ladies. 


286 


TALES OF HOME. 


Each liked the other for the contrast to her own self; 
both were honest, good and lovable, but Betty had the 
stronger nerves and a practical sense which seemed to be 
admirable courage in the eyes of Miss Alice, whose in- 
stincts were more delicate, whose tastes were fine and 
high, and who could not conceive of life without certain 
luxurious accessories. A very cordial friendship sprang up 
between them, — not the effusive girl-love, with its iterative 
kisses, tears, and flow of loosened hair, but springing 
from the respect inspired by sound and positive qualities. 

The winter before, Betty had been invited to visit her 
friend in the city, and had passed a very excited and de- 
lightful week in the stately Bartram mansion. If she 
were at first a little fluttered by the manners of the new 
world, she was intelligent enough to carry her own na- 
ture frankly through it, instead of endeavoring to assume 
its character. Thus her little awkwardnesses became 
originalities, and she was almost popular in the lofty cir- 
cle when she withdrew from it. It was therefore, per- 
haps, slightly inconsistent in Betty, that she was not quite 
sure how Miss Bartram would accept the reverse side of 
this social experience. She imagined it easier to look 
down and make allowances, as a host, than as a guest ; 
she could not understand that the charm of the change 
might be fully equal. 

It was lovely weather, as they drove up the sweet, 
ever-changing curves of the Brandywine valley. The 
woods fairly laughed in the clear sunlight, and the soft, 
incessant, shifting breezes. Leonard, in his best clothes, 


MISS bartram’s trouble. 


287 


and with a smoother gloss on his brown hair, sang to 
himself as he urged the strong-boned horses into a trot 
along the levels ; and Betty finally felt so quietly happy 
that she forgot to be nervous. When they reached the 
station they walked up and down the long platform to- 
gether, until the train from the city thundered up, and 
painfully restrained its speed. Then Betty, catching 
sight of a fawn-colored travelling dress issuing from the 
ladies’ car, caught hold of Leonard’s arm, and cried : 
“ There she is ! ” 

Miss Bartram heard the words, and looked down 
with a bright, glad expression on her face. It was not her 
beauty that made Leonard’s heart suddenly stop beating ; 
for she was not considered a beauty, in society. It was 
something rarer than perfect beauty, yet even more diffi- 
cult to describe, — a serene, unconscious grace, a pure, 
lofty maturity of womanhood, such as our souls bow down 
to in the Santa Barbara of Palma Yecchio. Her features 
were not “ faultlessly regular,” but they were informed 
with the finer harmonies of her character. She was a 
woman, at whose feet a noble man might kneel, lay his 
forehead on her knee, confess his sins, and be pardoned. 

She stepped down to the platform, and Betty’s arms 
were about her. After a double embrace she gently dis- 
engaged herself, turned to Leonard, gave him her hand, 
and said, with a smile which was delightfully frank and 
cordial : “ I will not wait for Betty’s introduction, Mr. 
Rambo. She has talked to me so much of her brother 
Harry, that I quite know you already.” 


288 


TALES OF HOME. 


Leonard could neither withdraw his eyes nor his hand. 
It was like a double burst of warmth and sunshine, in 
which his breast seemed to expand, his stature to grow, 
and his whole nature to throb with some new and won- 
derful force. A faint color came into Miss Bartram’s 
cheeks, as they stood thus, for a moment, face to face. 
She seemed to be waiting for him to speak, but of this he 
never thought ; had any words come to his mind, his 
tongue could not have uttered them. 

“ It is not Harry,” Betty explained, striving to hide 
her embarrassment. “ This is Leonard Clare, who lives 
with us.” 

“ Then I do not know you so well as I thought,” Miss 
Bartram said to him ; “ it is the beginning of a new ac- 
quaintance, after all.” 

“ There isn’t no harm done,” Leonard answered, and 
instantly feeling the awkwardness of the words, blushed 
so painfully that Miss Bartram felt the inadequacy of her 
social tact to relieve so manifest a case of distress. But 
she did, instinctively, what was really best : she gave 
Leonard the check for her trunk, divided her satchels 
with Betty, and walked to the carriage. 

He did not sing, as he drove homewards down the 
valley. Seated on the trunk, in front, he quietly governed 
the horses, while the two girls, on the seat behind him, 
talked constantly and gaily. Only the rich, steady tones 
of Miss Bartram’s voice would make their way into his ears, 
and every light, careless sentence printed itself upon his 
memory. They came to him as if from some inaccessible 


MISS bartram’s trouble. 289 

planet. Poor fellow ! he was not the first to feel “ the de- 
sire of the moth for the star.” 

When they reached the Rambo farm-house, it was nec- 
essary that he should give his hand to help her down from 
the clumsy carriage. He held it but a moment; yet in 
that moment a gentle pulse throbbed upon his hard palm, 
and he mechanically set his teeth, to keep down the im- 
pulse which made him wild to hold it there forever. 
“ Thank you, Mr. Clare ! ” said Miss Bartram, and pass- 
ed into the house. When he followed presently, shoulder- 
ing her trunk into the upper best-room, and kneeling upon 
the floor to unbuckle the straps, she found herself wonder- 
ing : “ Is this a knightly service, or the menial duty of a 
porter ? Can a man be both sensitive and ignorant, chiv- 
alrous and vulgar ? ” 

The question was not so easily decided, though no one 
guessed how much Miss Bartram pondered it, during the 
succeeding days. She insisted, from the first, that her 
coming should make no change in the habits of the house- 
hold ; she rose in the cool, dewy summer dawns, dined at 
noon in the old brown room beside the kitchen, and only 
differed from the Rambos in sitting at her moonlit win- 
dow, and breathing the subtle odors of a myriad leaves, 
long after Betty was sleeping the sleep of health. 

It was strange how frequently the strong, not very 
graceful figure of Leonard Clare marched through these 
reveries. She occasionally spoke to him at the common 
table, or as she passed the borders of the hay-field, where 
he and Henry were at work : but his words to her were 
1 3 


290 


TALES OF HOME. 


always few and constrained. What was there in his eyes 
that haunted her ? Not merely a most reverent admiration 
of her pure womanly refinement, although she read that 
also ; not a fear of disparagement, such as his awkward 
speech implied, but something which seemed to seek 
agonizingly for another language than that of the lips, — 
something which appealed to her from equal ground, 
and asked for an answer. 

One evening she met him in the lane, as she returned 
from the meadow. She carried a bunch of flowers, with 
delicate blue and lilac bells, and asked him the name. 

“ Them’s Brandywine cowslips,” he answered ; “ I 
never heard no other name .’ 5 

“ May I correct you ? ” she said, gently, and with a 
smile which she meant to be playful. “ I suppose the 
main thing is to speak one’s thought, but there are neat 
and orderly ways, and there are careless ways.” There- 
upon she pointed out the inaccuracies of his answer, he 
standing beside her, silent and attentive. When she 
ceased, he did not immediately reply. 

“ You will take it in good part, will you not ? ” she 
continued. “ I hope I have not offended you.” 

“ No ! ” he exclaimed, firmly, lifting his head, and 
looking at her. The inscrutable expression in his dark 
gray eyes was stronger than before, and all his features 
were more clearly drawn. He reminded her of a picture 
of Adam which she had once seen : there was the same 
rather low forehead, straight, even brows, full yet strong 
mouth, and that broader form of chin which repeats and 


MISS bartram’s trouble. 


291 


balances the character of the forehead. He was not posi- 
tively handsome, but from head to foot he expressed a 
fresh, sound quality of manhood. 

Another question flashed across Miss Bartram’s mind : 
Is life long enough to transform this clay into marble ? 
Here is a man in form, and with all the dignity of the per- 
fect masculine nature : shall the broad, free intelligence, 
the grace and sweetness, the taste and refinement, which 
the best culture gives, never be his also ? If not, woman 
must be content with faulty representations of her ideal. 

So musing, she walked on to the farm-house. Leon- 
ard had picked up one of the blossoms she had let fall, 
and appeared to be curiously examining it. If he had 
apologized for his want of grammar, or promised to re- 
form it, her interest in him might have diminished ; but his 
silence, his simple, natural obedience to some powerful 
inner force, whatever it was, helped to strengthen that 
phantom of him in her mind, which was now beginning to 
be a serious trouble. 

Once again, the day before she left the Rambo farm- 
house to return to the city, she came upon him, alone. 
She had wandered off to the Brandywine, to gather ferns 
at a rocky point where some choice varieties were to be 
found. There were a few charming clumps, half-way up 
a slaty cliff, which it did not seem possible to scale, and 
she was standing at the base, looking up in vain longing, 
when a voice, almost at her ear, said : 

“ Which ones do you want ? ” 

Afterwards, she wondered that she did not start at 


292 


TALES OF HOME. 


the voice. Leonard had come up the road from one of 
the lower fields : he wore neither coat nor waistcoat, and 
his shirt, open at the throat, showed the firm, beautiful 
white of the flesh below the strong tan of his neck. Miss 
Bartram noticed the sinewy strength and elasticity of his 
form, yet when she looked again at the ferns, she 
shook her head, and answered : 

“ None, since I cannot have them.” 

Without saying a word, he took off his shoes, and com- 
menced climbing the nearly perpendicular face of the 
cliff. He had done it before, many a time ; but Miss 
Bartram, although she was familiar with such exploits 
from the pages of many novels, had never seen the reality, 
and it quite took away her breath. 

When he descended with the ferns in his hand, she 
said : “It was a great risk ; I wish I had not wanted 
them.” 

“ It was no risk for me,” he answered. 

“ What can I send you in return ? ” she asked, as 
they walked forwards. “ I am going home to-morrow.” 

“ Betty told me,” Leonard said ; “ please, wait one 
minute.” 

He stepped down to the bank of the stream, washed 
his hands carefully in the clear water, and came back to 
her, holding them, dripping, at his sides. 

“ I am very ignorant,” he then continued, — “ ignorant 
and rough. You are good, to want to send me something^ 
but I want nothing. Miss Bartram, you are very good.” 

He paused ; but with all her tact and social experience, 
she did not know what to say. 


MISS bartram’s trouble. 


293 


“ Would you do one little thing for me — not for the 
ferns, that was nothing — no more than you do, without 
thinking, for all your friends ? J ’ 

“ Oh, surely ! ” she said. 

“ Might I — might I — now, — there’ll be no chance to- 
morrow, — shake hands with you? ” 

The words seemed to be forced from him by the 
strength of a fierce will. Both stopped, involuntarily. 

“ It’s quite dry, you see,” said he, offering his hand. 
Her own sank upon it, palm to palm, and the fingers 
softly closed over each, as if with the passion and sweet- 
ness of a kiss. Miss Bartram’s heart came to her eyes, 
and read, at last, the question in Leonard’s. It was : “ I 
as man, and you, as woman, are equals ; will you give me 
time to reach you ? ” What her eyes replied she knew not. 
A mighty influence drew her on, and a mighty doubt and 
dread restrained her. One said : “ Here is your lover, 

your husband, your cherished partner, left by fate below 
your station, yet whom you may lift to your side ! Shall 
man, alone, crown the humble maiden, — stoop to love, 
and, loving, ennoble ? Be you the queen, and love him 
by the royal right of womanhood ! ” But the other stern- 
ly whispered : “ How shall your fine and delicate fibres 

be knit into this coarse texture ? Ignorance, which years 
cannot wash away, — low instincts, what do you know ? — 
all the servile side of life, which is turned from you, — 
what madness to choose this, because some current of 
earthly magnetism sets along your nerves? He loves 
you : what of that ? You are a higher being to him, and 


294 


TALES OF HOME. 


he stupidly adores you. Think, — yes, dare to think of all 
the prosaic realities of life, shared with him ! ” 

Miss Bartram felt herself growing dizzy. Behind the 
impulse which bade her cast herself upon his breast 
swept such a hot wave of shame and pain that her face 
burned, and she dropped her eyelids to shut out the sight 
of his face. But, for one endless second, the sweeter 
voice spoke through their clasped hands. Perhaps he 
kissed hers ; she did not know ; she only heard herself 
murmur : 

“ Good-bye ! Pray go on ; I will rest here.” 

She sat down upon a bank by the roadside, turned 
away her head, and closed her eyes. It was long before 
the tumult in her nature subsided. If she reflected, with 
a sense of relief, “ nothing was said,” the thought imme- 
diately followed, “ but all is known.” It was impossible, 
— yes, clearly impossible ; and then came such a wild 
longing, such an assertion of the right and truth and jus- 
tice of love, as made her seem a miserable coward, the 
veriest slave of conventionalities. 

Out of this struggle dawned self-knowledge, and the 
strength which is born of it. When she returned to the 
house, she was pale and weary, but capable of respond- 
ing to Betty Rambo’s constant cheerfulness. The next 
day she left for the city, without having seen Leonard 
Clare again. 

II. 

Henry Rambo married, and brought a new mistress 
to the farm-house. Betty married, and migrated to a 


MISS BARTRAM’S TROUBLE. 


295 


new home in another part of the State. Leonard Clare 
went back to his trade, and returned no more in harvest- 
time. So the pleasant farm by the Brandywine, having 
served its purpose as a background, will be seen no more 
in this history. 

Miss Bartram’s inmost life, as a woman, was no lon- 
ger the same. The point of view from which she had 
beheld the world was shifted, and she was obliged to 
remodel all her feelings and ideas to conform to it. But 
the process was gradual, and no one stood near enough 
to her to remark it. She was occasionally suspected of 
that “ eccentricity” which, in a woman of five-and-twenty, 
is looked upon as the first symptom of a tendency to old- 
maidenhood, but which is 'really the sign of an earnest 
heart struggling with the questions of life. In the society 
of cities, most men give only the shallow, flashy surface 
of their natures to the young women they meet, and Miss 
Bartram, after that revelation of the dumb strength of an 
ignorant man, sometimes grew very impatient of the plati- 
tudes and affectations which came to her clad in elegant 
words, and accompanied by irreproachable manners. 

She had various suitors ; for that sense of grace and 
repose and sweet feminine power, which hung around 
her like an atmosphere, attracted good and true men to- 
wards her. To some, indeed, she gave that noble, un- 
troubled friendship which is always possible between the 
best of the two sexes, and when she was compelled to 
deny the more intimate appeal, it was done with such 
frank sorrow, such delicate tenderness, that she never lost 


296 TALES OF HOME. 

the friend in losing the lover. But, as one year after an- 
other went by, and the younger members of her family 
fell off into their separate domestic orbits, she began to 
shrink a little at the perspective of a lonely life, growing 
lonelier as it receded from the Present. 

By this time, Leonard Clare had become almost a 
dream to her. She had neither seen him nor heard of 
him since he let go her hand on that memorable evening 
beside the stream. He was a strange, bewildering chance, 
a cypher concealing a secret which she could not intelli- 
gently read. Why should she keep the memory of that 
power which was, perhaps, some unconscious quality of 
his nature (no, it was not so ! something deeper than rea- 
son cried :), or long since forgotten, if felt, by him ? 

The man whom she most esteemed came back to her. 
She knew the ripeness and harmony of his intellect, the 
nobility of his character, and the generosity of a feeling 
which would be satisfied with only a partial return. She 
felt sure, also, that she should never possess a sentiment 
nearer to love than that which pleaded his cause in her 
heart. But her hand lay quiet in his, her pulses were 
calm when he spoke, and his face, manly and true as it 
was, never invaded her dreams. All questioning was 
vain ; her heart gave no solution of the riddle. Perhaps 
her own want was common to all lives: then she was 
cherishing a selfish ideal, and rejecting the positive good 
offered to her hands. 

After long hesitation she yielded. The predictions of 
society came to naught ; instead of becoming an “ eccen- 


MISS bartram’s trouble. 297 

trie ” spinster, Miss Bartram was announced to be the 
affianced bride of Mr. Lawrie. A few weeks and months 
rolled around, and when the wedding-day came, she al- 
most hailed it as the port of refuge, where she should find 
a placid and peaceful life. 

They were married by an aged clergyman, a relative 
of the bridegroom. The cross-street where his chapel 
stood, fronting a Methodist church — both of the simplest 
form of that architecture fondly supposed to be Gothic, — 
was quite blocked up by the carriages of the party. The 
pews were crowded with elegant guests, the altar was 
decorated with flowers, and the ceremony lacked nothing 
of its usual solemn beauty. The bride was pale, but 
strikingly calm and self-possessed, and when she moved 
towards the door as Mrs. Lawrie, on her husband’s arm, 
many matrons, recalling their own experience, marvelled 
at her unflurried dignity. 

Just as they passed out the door, and the bridal car- 
riage was summoned, a singular thing happened. An- 
other bridal carriage drew up from the opposite side, and 
a newly wedded pair came forth from the portal of the 
Methodist church. Both parties stopped, face to face, 
divided only by the narrow street. Mrs. Lawrie first 
noticed the flushed cheeks of the other bride, her white 
dress, rather showy than elegant, and the heavy gold or- 
naments she wore. Then she turned to the bridegroom. 
He was tall and well-formed, dressed like a gentleman, but 
like one who is not yet unconscious of his dress, and had 
the air of a man accustomed to exercise some authority. 

13* 


298 


TALES OF HOME. 


She saw his face, and instantly all other faces disap- 
peared. From the opposite brink of a tremendous gulf 
she looked into his eyes, and their blended ray of love 
and despair pierced her to the heart. There was a roaring 
in her ears, followed a long sighing sound, like that of the 
wind on some homeless waste ; she leaned more heavily 
on her husband’s arm, leaned against his shoulder, slid 
slowly down into his supporting clasp, and knew no 
more. 

“ She’s paying for her mock composure, after all,” 
said the matrons. “ It must have been a great effort.” 


III. 

Ten years afterwards, Mrs. Lawrie went on board a 
steamer at Southampton, bound for New York. She 
was travelling alone, having been called suddenly from 
Europe by the approaching death of her aged father. 
For two or three days after sailing, the thick, rainy spring 
weather kept all below, except a few hardy gentlemen who 
crowded together on the lee of the smoke-stack, and kept 
up a stubborn cheerfulness on a very small capital of com- 
fort. There were few cabin-passengers on board, but the 
usual crowd of emigrants in the steerage. 

Mrs. Lawrie’s face had grown calmer and colder du- 
ring these years. There was yet no gray in her hair, no 
wrinkles about her clear eyes ; each feature appeared to 
be the same, but the pale, monotonous color which had 
replaced the warm bloom of her youth, gave them a dif- 


MISS bartram’s trouble. 299 

ferent character. The gracious dignity of her manner, the 
mellow tones of her voice, still expressed her unchanging 
goodness, yet those who met her were sure to feel, in some 
inexplicable way, that to be good is not always to be hap- 
py. Perhaps, indeed, her manner was older than her face 
and form : she still attracted the interest of men, but with 
a certain doubt and reserve. 

Certain it is that when she made her appearance on 
deck, glad of the blue sky and sunshine, and threw back 
her hood to feel the freshness of the sea air, all eyes fol- 
lowed her movements, except those of a forlorn individ- 
ual, who, muffled in his cloak and apparently sea-sick, lay 
upon one of the benches. The captain presently joined 
her, and the gentlemen saw that she was bright and per- 
fectly self-possessed in conversation : some of them im- 
mediately resolved to achieve an acquaintance. The dull, 
passive existence of the beginning of every voyage, seemed 
to be now at an end. It was time for the little society of 
the vessel to awake, stir itself, and organize a life of its 
own, for the few remaining days. 

That night, as Mrs. Lawrie was sleeping in her berth, 
she suddenly awoke with a singular feeling of dread and 
suspense. She listened silently, but for some time distin- 
guished none other than the small sounds of night on ship- 
board — the indistinct orders, the dragging of ropes, the 
creaking of timbers, the dull, regular jar of the engine, and 
the shuffling noise of feet overhead. But, ere long, she 
seemed to catch faint, distant sounds, that seemed like 
cries ; then came hurry and confusion on deck ; then 


3oo 


TALES OF HOME. 


voices in the cabin, one of which said : “ they never can 
get it under, at this rate ! ” 

She rose, dressed herself hastily, and made her way 
through pale and excited stewards, and the bewildered 
passengers who were beginning to rush from their state- 
rooms, to the deck. In the wild tumult which prevailed, 
she might have been thrown down and trampled under 
foot, had not a strong arm seized her around the waist, 
and borne her towards the stern, where there were but few 
persons. 

“Wait here ! ” said a voice, and her protector plunged 
into the crowd. 

She saw, instantly, the terrible fate which had fallen 
upon the vessel. The bow was shrouded in whirls of 
smoke, through which dull red flashes began to show 
themselves ; and all the length and breadth of the deck was 
filled with a screaming, struggling, fighting mass of des- 
perate human beings. She saw the captain, officers, and 
a few of the crew working in vain against the disorder : 
she saw the boats filled before they were lowered, and 
heard the shrieks as they were capsized ; she saw spars and 
planks and benches cast overboard, and maddened men 
plunging after them ; and then, like the sudden opening 
of the mouth of Hell, the relentless, triumphant fire burst 
through the forward deck and shot up to the foreyard. 

She was leaning against the mizen shrouds, between 
the coils of rope. Nobody appeared to notice her, al 
though the quarter-deck was fast filling with persons driven 
back by the fire, yet still shrinking from the terror and 


MISS bartram’s trouble. 301 

uncertainty of the sea. She thought : “ It is but death 
— why should I fear ? The waves are at hand, to save me 
from all suffering.” And the collective horror of hundreds 
of beings did not so overwhelm her as she had both fan- 
cied and feared ; the tragedy of each individual life was lost 
in the confusion, and was she not a sharer in their doom ? 

Suddenly, a man stood before her with a cork life- 
preserver in his hands, and buckled it around her securely, 
under the arms. He was panting and almost exhausted, 
yet he strove to make his voice firm, and even cheerful, as 
he said : 

“ We fought the cowardly devils as long as there was 
any hope. Two boats are off, and two capsized ; in ten 
minutes more every soul must take to the water. Trust 
to me, and I will save you or die with you ! ” 

“ What else can I do ? ” she answered. 

With a few powerful strokes of an axe, he broke off 
the top of the pilot-house, bound two or three planks to 
it with ropes, and dragged the mass to the bulwarks. 

“ The minute this goes,” he then said to her, “ you 
go after it, and I follow. Keep still when you rise to the 
surface.” 

She left the shrouds, took hold of the planks at his 
side, and they heaved the rude raft into the sea. In an 
instant she was seized and whirled over the side ; she 
instinctively held her breath, felt a shock, felt herself 
swallowed up in an awful, fathomless coldness, and then 
found herself floating below the huge towering hull which 
slowly drifted away. 


302 


TALES OF HOME. 


In another moment there was one at her side. “ Lay 
your hand on my shoulder,” he said ; and when she did 
so, swam for the raft,, which they soon reached. While 
she supported herself by one of the planks he so arranged 
and bound together the pieces of timber that in a short 
time they could climb upon them and rest, not much 
washed by the waves. The ship drifted further and 
further, casting a faint, though awful, glare over the sea, 
until the light was suddenly extinguished, as the hull sank. 

The dawn was in the sky by this time, and as it broad- 
ened they could see faint specks here and there, where 
others, like themselves, clung to drifting spars. Mrs. Lawrie 
shuddered with cold and the reaction from an excitement 
which had been far more powerful than she knew at the time. 

Her preserver then took off his coat, wrapped it 
around her, and produced a pocket-flask, saying ; “ this 
will support us the longest ; it is all I could find, or bring 
with me.” 

She sat, leaning against his shoulder, though partly 
turned away from him : all she could say was : “ you are 
very good.” 

After awhile he spoke, and his voice seemed changed 
to her ears. “ You must be thinking of Mr. Lawrie. 
It will, indeed, be terrible for him to hear of the disaster, 
before knowing that you are saved.” 

“ God has spared him that distress,” she answered. 
“ Mr. Lawrie died, a year ago.” 

She felt a start in the strong frame upon which she 
leaned. After a few minutes of silence, he slowly shifted 


MISS bartram’s trouble. 


303 

his position towards her, yet still without facing her, and 
said, almost in a whisper : 

“ You have said that I am very good. Will you put 
your hand in mine ? ” 

She stretched hers eagerly and gratefully towards him. 
What had happened ? Through all the numbness of her 
blood, there sprang a strange new warmth from his strong 
palm, and a pulse, which she had almost forgotten as a 
dream of the past, began to beat through her frame. She 
turned around all a-tremble, and saw his face in the glow 
of the coming day. 

“ Leonard Clare ! ” she cried. 

“ Then you have not forgotten me ? ” 

“ Could one forget, when the other remembers ?” 

The words came involuntarily from her lips. She 
felt what they implied, the moment afterwards, and said 
no more. But he kept her hand in his. 

“ Mrs. Lawrie,” he began, after another silence, “ we 
are hanging by a hair on the edge of life, but I shall glad- 
ly let that hair break, since I may tell you now, purely 
and in the hearing of God, how I have tried to rise to you 
out of the low place in which you found me. At first 
you seemed too far ; but you yourself led me the first step 
of the way, and I have steadily kept my eyes on you, and 
followed it. When I had learned my trade, I came to 
the city. No labor was too hard for me, no study too 
difficult. I was becoming a new man, I saw all that was 
still lacking, and how to reach it, and I watched you, un- 
known, at a distance. Then I heard of your engagement : 


304 


TALES OF HOME. 


you were lost, and something of which I had begun to 
dream, became insanity. I determined to trample it out 
of my life. The daughter of the master-builder, whose 
first assistant I was, had always favored me in her society ; 
and I soon persuaded her to love me. I fancied, too, 
that I loved her as most married men seemed to love their 
wives; the union would advance me to a partnership in 
her father’s business, and my fortune would then be secur- 
ed. You know what happened ; but you do not know 
how the sight of your face planted the old madness again 
in my life, and made me a miserable husband, a misera- 
ble man of wealth, almost a scoffer at the knowledge I 
had acquired for your sake. 

“ When my wife died, taking an only child with her, 
there was nothing left to me except the mechanical am- 
bition to make myself, without you, what I imagined I 
might have become, through you. I have studied and 
travelled, lived alone and in society, until your world 
seemed to be almost mine : but you were not there ! ” 

The sun had risen, while they sat, rocking on their 
frail support. Her hand still lay in his, and her head 
rested on his shoulder. Every word he spoke sank into 
her heart with a solemn sweetness, in which her whole 
nature was silent and satisfied. Why should she speak ? 
He knew all. 

Yes, it seemed that he knew. His arm stole around 
her, and her head was drawn from his shoulder to the 
warm breadth of his breast. Something hard pressed her 
cheek, and she lifted her hand to move it aside. He 


MISS bartram’s trouble. 


305 


drew forth a flat medallion case ; and to the unconscious 
question in her face, such a sad, tender smile came to his 
lips, that she could not repress a sudden pain. Was it 
the miniature of his dead wife ? 

He opened the case, and showed her, under the glass, 
a faded, pressed flower. 

“ What is it ? ” she asked. 

“ The Brandywine cowslip you dropped, when you 
spoke to me in the lane. Then it was that you showed 
me the first step of the way.” 

She laid her head again upon his bosom. Hour after 
hour they sat, and the light swells of the sea heaved them 
aimlessly to and fro, and the sun burned them, and the 
spray drenched their limbs. At last Leonard Clare 
roused himself and looked around : he felt numb and 
faint, and he saw, also, that her strength was rapidly 
failing. 

“ We cannot live much longer, I fear,” he said, clasp- 
ing her closely in his arms. “ Kiss me once, darling, and 
then we will die.” 

She clung to him and kissed him. 

“ There is life, not death, in your lips!” he cried. 
“ Oh, God, if we should live ! ” 

He rose painfully to his feet, stood, tottering, on the 
raft, and looked across the waves. Presently he began 
to tremble, then to sob like a child, and at last spoke, 
through his tears : 

“ A sail ! a sail !— and heading towards us ! ” 







MRS. STRONGITHARM’S REPORT. 

R. EDITOR, — If you ever read 
the “ Burroak Banner” (which you 
will find among your exchanges, as 
the editor publishes your prospec- 
tus for six weeks every year, and 
sends no bill to you) my name will 
hot be that of a stranger. Let me throw aside all affec 
tation of humility, and say that I hope it is already and not 
unfavorably familiar to you. I am informed by those who 
claim to know that the manuscripts of obscure writers are 
passed over by you editors without examination — in short, 
that I must first have a name, if I hope to make one. The 
fact that an article of three hundred and seventy-five 
pages, which I sent, successively, to the “North Ameri- 
can Review,” the “ Catholic World,” and the “ Radical,” 
was in each case returned to me with my knot on the tape 
by which it was tied, convinces me that such is indeed the 
case. A few years ago I should not have meekly submit- 
ted to treatment like this ; but late experiences have 
taught me the vanity of many womanly dreams. 



3°8 


TALES OF HOME. 


You are acquainted with the part I took (I am sure 
you must have seen it in the “Burroak Banner” eight 
years ago) in creating that public sentiment in our favor 
which invested us with all the civil and political rights of 
men. How the editors of the “ Revolution,” to which I 
subscribe, and the conventions in favor of the equal rights 
of women, recently held in Boston and other cities, have 
failed to notice our noble struggle, is a circumstance for 
which I will not try to account. I will only say — and it is 
a hint which some persons will understand — that there are 
other forms of jealousy than those which spring from love. 

It is, indeed, incredible that so little is known, outside 
the State of Atlantic, of the experiment — I mean the 
achievement — of the last eight years. While the war 
lasted, we did not complain that our work was ignored ; 
but now that our sisters in other States are acting as if in 
complete unconsciousness of what we have done — now 
that we need their aid and they need ours (but in differ- 
ent ways), it is time that somebody should speak. Were 
Selina Whiston living, I should leave the task to her pen ; 
she never recovered from the shock and mortification of 
her experiences in the State Legislature, in ’64 — but I 
will not anticipate the history. Of all the band of female 
iconoclasts, as the Hon. Mr. Screed called us in jest — 
it was no jest afterwards, his image being the first to go 
down — of all, I say, “ some are married, and some are 
dead,” and there is really no one left so familiar with the 
circumstances as I am, and equally competent to give a 
report of them. 


MRS. STRONGITHARM’S REPORT. 309 

Mr. Spelter (the editor of the “ Burroak Banner”) 
suggests that I must be brief, if I wish my words to reach 
the ears of the millions for whom they are designed ; and 
I shall do my best to be so. If I were not obliged to be- 
gin at the very beginning, and if the interests of Atlantic 
had not been swallowed up, like those of other little States, 
in the whirlpool of national politics, I should have much 
less to say. But if Mr. George Fenian Brain and Mrs. 
Candy Station do not choose to inform the public of either 
the course or the results of our struggle, am I to blame ? 
If I could have attended the convention in Boston, and 
had been allowed to speak — and I am sure the distin- 
guished Chairwoman would have given me a chance — it 
would have been the best way, no doubt, to set our case 
before the world. 

I must first tell you how it was that we succeeded in 
forcing the men to accept our claims, so much in advance 
of other States.' We were indebted for it chiefly to the 
skill and adroitness of Selina Whiston. The matter had 
been agitated, it is true, for some years before, and as 
early as 1856, a bill, drawn up by Mrs. Whiston herself, 
had been introduced into the Legislature, where it re- 
ceived three votes. Moreover, we had held meetings 
in almost every election precinct in the State, and our An- 
nual Fair (to raise funds) at Gaston, while the Legislature 
was in session, was always very brilliant and successful. 
So the people were not entirely unprepared. 

Although our State had gone for Fremont in 1856, by 
a small majority, the Democrats afterwards elected their 


3io 


TALES OF HOME. 


Governor ; and both parties, therefore, had hopes of suc- 
cess in i860. The canvass began early, and was very 
animated. Mrs. Whiston had already inaugurated the 
custom of attending political meetings, and occasionally 
putting a question to the stump orator — no matter of which 
party; of sometimes, indeed, taking the stump herself, 
after the others had exhausted their wind. She was very 
witty, as you know, and her stories were so good and so 
capitally told, that neither Democrat nor Republican 
thought of leaving the ground while she was upon the stand. 

Now, it happened that our Congressional District was 
one of the closest. It happened, also, that our candidate 
(I am a Republican, and so is Mr. Strongitharm) was 
rather favorably inclined to the woman’s cause. It hap- 
pened, thirdly — and this is the seemingly insignificant 
pivot upon which we whirled into triumph — that he, Mr. 
Wrangle, and the opposing candidate, Mr. Tumbrill, had 
arranged to hold a joint meeting at Burroak. This meet- 
ing took place on a magnificent day, just after the oats- 
harvest; and everybody, for twenty miles around, was 
there. Mrs. Whiston, together with Sarah Pincher, 
Olympia Knapp, and several other prominent advocates 
of our cause, met at my house in the morning ; and we 
all agreed that it was time to strike a blow. The rest of 
us magnanimously decided to take no part in the concert- 
ed plan, though very eager to do so. Selina Whiston de- 
clared that she must have the field to herself; and when 
she said that, we knew she meant it. 

It was generally known that she was on the ground. 


MRS. STRONGITHARM’S REPORT. 31I 

In fact, she spent most of the time while Messrs. Wrangle 
and Tumbrill were speaking, in walking about through 
the crowds — so after an hour apiece for the gentlemen, 
and then fifteen minutes apiece for a rejoinder, and the 
Star Spangled Banner from the band, for both sides, we 
were not a bit surprised to hear a few cries of “ Whiston ! ” 
from the audience. Immediately we saw the compact 
gray bonnet and brown serge dress (she knew what would 
go through a crowd without tearing !) splitting the wedge 
of people on the steps leading to the platform. I noticed 
that the two Congressional candidates looked at each 
other and smiled, in spite of the venomous charges they 
had just been making. 

Well — I won’t attempt to report her speech, though it 
was her most splendid effort (as people will say, when it 
was no effort to her at all). But the substance of it was 
this : after setting. forth woman’s wrongs and man’s tyranny, 
and taxation without representation, and an equal chance, 
and fair-play, and a struggle for life (which you know all 
about from the other conventions), she turned squarely 
around to the two candidates and said : 

“ Now to the practical application. You, Mr. Wran- 
gle, and you, Mr. Tumbrill, want to be elected to Congress. 
The district is a close one : you have both counted the 
votes in advance (oh, I know your secrets !) and there 
isn’t a difference of a hundred in your estimates. A very 
little will turn the scale either way. Perhaps a woman’s 
influence — perhaps my voice — might do it. But I will 
give you an equal chance. So much power is left to 


312 


TALES OF HOME. 


woman, despite what you withhold, that we, the women 
of Putnam, Shinnebaug, and Rancocus counties, are able 
to decide which of you shall be elected. Either of you 
would give a great deal to have a majority of the intelli- 
gent women of the District on your side : it would already 
be equivalent to success. Now, to show that we under- 
stand the political business from which you have exclu- 
ded us — to prove that we are capable of imitating the 
noble example of men — we offer to sell our influence, as 
they their votes, to the highest bidder ! ” 

There was great shouting and cheering among the 
people at this, but the two candidates, somehow or other, 
didn’t seem much amused. 

“ I stand here,” she continued, “ in the interest of my 
struggling sisters, and with authority to act for them. 
Which of you will bid the most — not in offices or material 
advantages, as is the way of your parties, but in the way 
of help to the Woman’s Cause ? Which of you will here 
publicly pledge himself to say a word for us, from now 
until election-day, whenever he appears upon the stump ? ’> 

There was repeated cheering, and cries of “ Got ’em 
there ! ” (Men are so vulgar). 

I pause for a reply. Shall they not answer me ? ” she 
continued, turning to the audience. 

“ Then there were tremendous cries of “ Yes ! yes ! 
Wrangle ! Tumbrill ! ” 

Mr. Wrangle looked at Mr. Tumbrill, and made a 
motion with his head, signifying that he should speak. 
Then Mr. Tumbrill looked at Mr. Wrangle, and made a 


MRS. STRONGITHARM’S REPORT. 3 1 3 

motion that he should speak. The people saw all this, 
and laughed and shouted as if they would never finish. 

Mr. Wrangle, on second thoughts (this is my private 
surmise), saw that boldness would just then be popular; 
so he stepped forward. 

“ Do I understand,” he said, “ that my fair and elo- 
quent friend demands perfect political and civil equality 
for her sex ? ” 

“I do ! ” exclaimed Selina Whiston, in her firmest 
manner. 

“ Let me be more explicit,” he continued. “ You 
mean precisely the same rights, the same duties, the 
same obligations, the same responsibilities ? ” 

She repeated the phrases over after him, affirmatively, 
with an emphasis which I never heard surpassed. 

“ Pardon me once more,” said Mr. Wrangle ; “ the 
right to vote, to hold office, to practise law, theology* 
medicine, to take part in all municipal affairs, to sit on 
juries, to be called upon to aid in the execution of the 
law, to aid in suppressing disturbances, enforcing public 
order, and performing military duty ? ” 

Here there were loud cheers from the audience ; and 
a good many voices cried out : “ Got her there ! ” (Men 
are so very vulgar.) 

Mrs. Whiston looked troubled for a moment, but she 
saw that a moment’s hesitation would be fatal to our 
scheme, so she brought out her words as if each one 
were a maul-blow on the butt-end of a wedge : 

“ All — that — we — demand ! ” 

T 4 


314 TALES OE HOME. 

“ Then,” said Mr. Wrangle, “ I bid my support in 
exchange for the women’s ! Just what the speaker de- 
mands, without exception or modification — equal privi- 
leges, rights, duties and obligations, without regard to 
the question of sex ! Is that broad enough ? ” 

I was all in a tremble when it came to that. Some- 
how Mr. Wrangle’s acceptance of the bid did not in- 
spire me, although it promised so much. I had antici- 
pated opposition, dissatisfaction, tumult. So had Mrs. 
Whiston, and I could see, and the crowd could see, that 
she was not greatly elated. 

Mr. Wrangle made a very significant bow to Mr. 
Tumbrill, and then sat down. There were cries of 
“ Tumbrill ! ” and that gentleman — none of us, of course, 
believing him sincere, for we knew his private views — 
came forward and made exactly the same pledge. I will 
do both parties the justice to say that they faithfully kept 
their word ; nay, it was generally thought the repetition 
of their brief pleas for woman, at some fifty meetings 
before election came, had gradually conducted them to 
the belief that they were expressing their own personal 
sentiments. The mechanical echo in public thus de- 
veloped into an opinion in private. My own political 
experience has since demonstrated to me that this is a 
phenomenon very common among men. 

The impulse generated at that meeting gradually 
spread all over the State. We — the leaders of the 
Women’s Movement — did not rest until we had exacted 
the same pledge from all the candidates of both parties ; 


MRS. STRONGITHARM’S REPORT. 315 

and the nearer it drew towards election-day, the more 
prominence was given, in the public meetings, to the 
illustration and discussion of the subject. Our State 
went for Lincoln by a majority of 2763 (as you will find 
by consulting the “ Tribune Almanac”), and Mr. Wrangle 
was elected to Congress, having received a hundred and 
fcrty-two more votes than his opponent. Mr. Tumbrill 
has always attributed his defeat to his want of courage 
in not taking up at once the glove which Selina Whiston 
threw down. 

I think I have said enough to make it clear how the 
State of Atlantic came to be the first to grant equal civil 
and political rights to women. When the Legislature of 
i86o-’6i met at Gaston, we estimated that we might 
count upon fifty-three out of the seventy-one Republican 
Senators and Assemblymen, and on thirty-four out of the 
sixty-five Democrats. This would give a majority of 
twenty-eight in the House, and ten in the Senate. Should 
the bill pass, there was still a possibility that it might be 
vetoed by the Governor, of whom we did not feel sure. 
We therefore arranged that our Annual Fair should be 
held a fortnight later than usual, and that the proceeds 
(a circumstance known only to the managers) should be 
devoted to a series of choice suppers, at which we enter- 
tained, not only the Governor and our friends in both 
Houses, but also, like true Christians, our legislatorial 
enemies. Olympia Knapp, who, you know, is so very 
beautiful, presided at these entertainments. She put 
forth all her splendid powers, and with more effect than 


TALES OF HOME. 


316 

any of us suspected. On the day before the bill reached 
its third reading, the Governor made her an offer of 
marriage. She came to the managers in great agitation, 
and laid the matter before them, stating that she was 
overwhelmed with surprise (though Sarah Pincher always 
maintained that she wasn’t in the least), and asking their 
advice. We discussed the question for four hours, and 
finally decided that the interests of the cause would 
oblige her to accept the Governor’s hand. “ Oh, I am so 
glad !” cried Olympia, “for I accepted him at once.” It 
was a brave, a noble deed ! 

Now, I would ask those who assert that women are 
incapable of conducting the business of politics, to say 
whether any set of men, of either party, could have 
played their cards more skilfully ? Even after the 
campaign was over we might have failed, had it not been 
for the suppers. We owed this idea, like the first, to the 
immortal Selina Whiston. A lucky accident — as mo- 
mentous in its way as the fall of an apple to Newton, or 
the flying of a kite to Dr. Franklin — gave her the secret 
principle by which the politics of men are directed. Her 
house in Whittletown was the half of a double frame 
building, and the rear-end of the other part was the 
private office of — but no, I will not mention the name — • 
a lawyer and a politician. He was known as a “ wire- 
puller,” and the other wire-pullers of his party used to 
meet in his office and discuss matters. Mrs. Whiston 
always asserted that there was a mouse-hole through the 
partition ; but she had energy enough to have made a 
hole herself, for the sake of the cause. 


MRS. STRONGITHARM’S REPORT. 3 1 7 

She never would tell us all she overheard. “It is 
enough,” she would say, “ that I know how the thing is 
done.” 

I remember that we were all considerably startled when 
she first gave us an outline of her plan. On my saying 
that I trusted the dissemination of our principles would 
soon bring us a great adhesion, she burst out with : 

“ Principles ! Why if we trust to principles, we shall 
never succeed ! We must rely upon influences , as the 
men do ; we must fight them with their own weapons, 
and even then we are at a disadvantage, because we can- 
not very well make use of whiskey and cigars.” 

We yielded, because we had grown accustomed to be 
guided by her ; and, moreover, we had seen, time and 
again, how she could succeed — as, for instance, in the 
Nelson divorce case (but I don’t suppose you ever heard 
of that), when the matter seemed nigh hopeless to all of 
us. The history of i860 and the following winter proves 
that in her the world has lost a stateswoman. Mr. 
Wrangle and Governor Battle have both said to me 
that they never knew a measure to be so splendidly en- 
gineered both before the public and in the State Legis- 
lature. 

After the bill had been passed, and signed by the 
Governor, and so had become a law, and the grand 
Women’s Jubilee had been held at Gaston, the excite- 
ment subsided. It would be nearly a year to the next 
State election, and none of the women seemed to care 
for the local and municipal elections in the spring. Be- 


318 


TALES OF HOME. 


sides, there was a good deal of anxiety among them in 
regard to the bill, which was drawn up in almost 
the exact terms used by Mr. Wrangle at the political 
meeting. In fact, we always have suspected that he 
wrote it. The word “ male” was simply omitted from 
all laws. “ Nothing is changed,” said Mrs. Whiston, 
quoting Charles X., “there are only 201,758 more citi- 
zens in Atlantic ! ” 

This was in January, 1861, you must remember; 
and the shadow of the coming war began to fall over 
us. Had the passage of our bill been postponed a 
fortnight it would have been postponed indefinitely, for 
other and (for the men) more powerful excitements fol- 
lowed one upon the other. Even our jubilee was thinly 
attended, and all but two of the members on whom 
we relied for speeches failed us. Governor Battle, who 
was to have presided, was at Washington, and Olympia, 
already his wife, accompanied him. (I may add that she 
has never since taken any active part with us. They 
have been in Europe for the last three years.) 

Most of the women — here in Burroak, at least — ex 
pressed a feeling of disappointment that there was no 
palpable change in their lot, no sense of extended liberty, 
such as they imagined would come to transform them 
into brighter and better creatures. They supposed that 
they would at once gain in importance in the eyes of the 
men ; but the men were now so preoccupied by the 
events at the South that they seemed to have forgotten 
our political value. Speaking for myself, as a good 


MRS. STR 0 NGI 1 HARM'S REPORT. 319 

Union woman, I felt that I must lay aside, for a time, the 
interests of my sex. Once, it is true, I proposed to 
accompany Mr. Strongitharm to a party caucus at the 
Wrangle House ; but he so suddenly discovered that he 
had business in another part of the town, that I withdrew 
my proposition. 

As the summer passed over, and the first and second 
call for volunteers had been met, and more than met, by 
the patriotic men of the State (how we blessed them !) 
we began to take courage, and to feel, that if our new 
civil position brought us no very tangible enjoyment, 
at least it imposed upon us no very irksome duties. 

The first practical effect of the new law came to light 
at the August term of our County Court. The names of 
seven women appeared on the list of jurors, but only 
three of them answered to their names. One, the wife of 
a poor farmer, was excused by the Judge, as there was no 
one to look after six small children in her absence ; 
another was a tailoress, with a quantity of work on hand, 
some of which she proposed bringing with her into Court, 
in order to save time ; but as this could not be allowed, 
she made so much trouble that she was also finally let 
off. Only one, therefore, remained to serve ; fortunately 
for the credit of our sex, she was both able and willing 
to do so ; and we afterward made a subscription, and 
presented her with a silver fish-knife, on account of her 
having tired out eleven jurymen, and brought in a verdict 
of $5,000 damages against a young man whom she con- 
victed of seduction. She told me that no one would ever 


320 


TALES OF HOME. 


know what she endured during those three days ; but the 
morals of our county have been better ever since. 

Mr. Spelter told me that his State exchanges showed 
that there had been difficulties of the same kind in all the 
other counties. In Mendip (the county-town of which is 
Whittletown, Mrs. Whiston’s home) the immediate result 
had been the decision, on the part of the Commissioners, 
to build an addition at the rear of the Court-House, with 
large, commodious and well-furnished jury-rooms, so 
arranged that a comfortable privacy was secured to the 
jury-women. I did my best to have the same improve- 
ment adopted here, but, alas ! I have not the ability of 
Selina Whiston in such matters, and there is nothing to 
this day but the one vile, miserable room, properly fur- 
nished in no particular except spittoons. 

The nominating Conventions were held in August, 
also, and we were therefore called upon to move at once, 
in order to secure our fair share. Much valuable time 
had been lost in discussing a question of policy, namely, 
whether we should attach ourselves to the two parties 
already in existence, according to our individual inclina- 
tions, or whether we should form a third party for our- 
selves. We finally accepted the former proposition, and 
I think wisely ; for the most of us were so ignorant of 
political tricks and devices, that we still needed to learn 
from the men, and we could not afford to draw upon us 
the hostility of both parties, in the very infancy of our 
movement. 

Never in my life did I have such a task, as in drum- 


MRS. STRONGITHARM’S REPORT. 32 1 

ming up a few women to attend the primary township meet’ 
ing for the election of delegates. It was impossible to make 
them comprehend its importance. Even after I had done 
my best to explain the technicalities of male politics, and 
fancied that I had made some impression, the answer 
would be: “Well, I’d go, I’m sure, just to oblige you, 
but then there’s the tomatoes to be canned ” — or, “ I’m so 
behindhand with my darning and patching” — or, “John ’ll 
be sure to go, and there’s no need of two from the same 
house” — and so on, until I was mightily discouraged. 
There were just nine of us, all told, to about a hundred 
men. I won’t deny that our situation that night, at the 
Wrangle House, was awkward and not entirely agreeable. 
To be sure the landlord gave us the parlor, and most of 
the men came in, now and then, to speak to us ; but 
they managed the principal matters all by themselves, in 
the bar-room, which was such a mess of smoke and stale 
liquor smells, that it turned my stomach when I ventured 
in for two minutes. 

I don’t think we should have accomplished much, but 
for a ’cute idea of Mrs. Wilbur, the tinman’s wife. She 
went to the leaders, and threatened them that the women’s 
vote should be cast in a body for the Democratic candi- 
dates, unless we were considered in making up the ticket. 
That helped : the delegates were properly instructed, and 
the County Convention afterward nominated two men and 
one woman as candidates for the Assembly. That woman 
was — as I need hardly say, for the world knows it — my- 
self. I had not solicited the honor, and therefore could 


322 


TALES OF HOME. 


not refuse, especially as my daughter Melissa was then 
old enough to keep house in my absence. No woman 
had applied for the nomination for Sheriff, but there were 
seventeen schoolmistresses anxious for the office of 
County Treasurer. The only other nomination given to 
the women, however, was that of Director (or rather, Di- 
rectress) of the Poor, which was conferred on Mrs. Bas- 
sett, wife of a clergyman. 

Mr. Strongitharm insisted that I should, in some wise, 
prepare myself for my new duties, by reading various po- 
litical works, and I conscientiously tried to do so — but, 
dear me ! it was much more of a task than I supposed. 
We had all read the debate on our bill, of course ; but I 
always skipped the dry, stupid stuff about the tariff, and 
finance, and stay laws and exemption laws, and railroad 
company squabbles ; and for the life of me I can’t see, to 
this day, what connection there is between these things 
and Women’s Rights. But, as I said, I did my best, 
with the help of Webster’s Dictionary ; although the fur- 
ther I went the less I liked it. 

As election-day drew nearer, our prospects looked 
brighter. The Republican ticket, under the editorial 
head of the “ Burroak Banner,” with my name and Mrs. 
Bassett’s among the men’s, was such an evidence, that 
many women, notably opposed to the cause, said : “ We 
didn’t want the right, but since we have it, we shall make 
use of it.” This was exactly what Mrs. Whiston had fore- 
told. We estimated that — taking the County tickets all 
over the State — we had about one-twentieth of the Re- 


MRS. STRONGITHARM’S REPORT. 323 

publican, and one-fiftieth of the Democratic, nominations. 
This was far from being our due, but still it was a good 
beginning. 

My husband insisted that I should go very early to 
the polls. I could scarcely restrain a tear of emotion as 
I gave my first ballot into the hands of the judges. There 
were not a dozen persons present, and the act did not 
produce the sensation which I expected. One man cried 
out : “Three cheers for our Assemblywoman !” and they 
gave them ; and I thereupon returned home in the best 
spirits. I devoted the rest of the day to relieving poorer 
women, who could not have spared the time to vote, if I 
had not, meanwhile, looked after their children. The last 
was Nancy Black, the shoemaker’s wife in our street, who 
kept me waiting upon her till it was quite dark. When 
she finally came, the skirt of her dress was ripped nearly 
off, her hair .was down and her comb broken ; but 
she was triumphant, for Sam Black was with her, and 
sober. “ The first time since we were married, Mrs. 
Strongitharm ! ” she cried. Then she whispered to me, 
as I was leaving : “ And I’ve killed bis vote, anyhow ! ” 

When the count was made, our party was far ahead. 
Up to this time, I think, the men of both parties had be- 
lieved that only a few women, here and there, would 
avail themselves of their new right — but they were 
roundly mistaken. Although only ten per cent, of the 
female voters went to the polls, yet three-fourths of them 
voted the Republican ticket, which increased the majority 
of that party, in the State, about eleven thousand. 


324 


TALES OF HOME. 


It was amazing what an effect followed this result. 
The whole country would have rung with it, had we not 
been in the midst of war. Mr. Wrangle declared that he 
had always been an earnest advocate of the women’s 
cause. Governor Battle, in his“ next message, congratu- 
lated the State on the signal success of the experiment, 
and the Democratic masses, smarting under their defeat, 
cursed their leaders for not having been sharp enough 
to conciliate the new element. The leaders themselves 
said nothing, and in a few weeks the rank and file recov- 
ered their cheerfulness. Even Mrs. Whiston, with all her 
experience, was a little puzzled by this change of mood. 
Alas ! she was far from guessing the correct explanation. 

It was a great comfort to me that Mrs. Whiston was 
also elected to the Legislature. My husband had just 
then established his manufactory of patent self-scouring 
knife-blades (now so celebrated), and could not leave ; 
so I was obliged to go up to Gaston all alone, when the 
session commenced. There were but four, of us Assem- 
blywomen, and although the men treated us with great 
courtesy, I was that nervous that I seemed to detect 
either commiseration or satire everywhere. Before I had 
even taken my seat, I was addressed by fifteen or twenty 
different gentlemen, either great capitalists, or great en- 
gineers, or distinguished' lawyers, all interested in various 
schemes for developing the resources of our State by new 
railroads, canals or ferries. I then began to comprehend 
the grandeur of the Legislator’s office. My voice could 
assist in making possible these magnificent improvements, 


MRS. STRONGITHARM’S REPORT. 325 

and I promised it to all. Mr. Filch, President of the 
Shinnebaug and Great Western Consolidated Line, was 
so delighted with my appreciation of his plan for reduc- 
ing the freight on grain from Nebraska, that he must have 
written extravagant accounts of me to his wife ; for she 
sent me, at Christmas, one of the loveliest shawls I ever 
beheld. 

I had frequently made short addresses at our public 
meetings, and was considered to have my share of self- 
possession; but I never could accustom myself to the 
keen, disturbing, irritating atmosphere of the Legislature. 
Everybody seemed wide-awake and aggressive, instead 
of pleasantly receptive ; there were so many “ points of 
order,” and what not ; such complete disregard, among 
the members, of each other’s feelings ; and, finally — a 
thing I could never understand, indeed — such inconsis- 
tency and lack of principle in the intercourse of the two 
parties. How could I feel assured of their sincerity, when 
I saw the very men chatting and laughing together, in 
the lobbies, ten minutes after they had been facing each 
other like angry lions in the debate ? 

Mrs. Whiston, also, had her trials of the same char- 
acter. Nothing ever annoyed her so much as a little 
blunder she made, the week after the opening of the ses- 
sion. I have not yet mentioned that there was already a 
universal dissatisfaction among the women, on account 
of their being liable to military service. The war seemed 
to have hardly begun, as yet, and conscription was already 
talked about ; the women, therefore, clamored for an ex- 


TALES OF HOME. 


325 

emption on account of sex. Although we all felt that this 
was a retrograde movement, the pressure was so great that 
we yielded. Mrs. Whiston, reluctant at first, no sooner 
made up her mind that the thing must be done, than she 
furthered it with all her might. After several attempts to 
introduce a bill, which were always cut off by some “point 
of order,” she unhappily lost her usual patience. 

I don’t know that I can exactly explain how it hap- 
pened, for what the men call “ parliamentary tactics ” al- 
ways made me fidgetty. But the “previous question” 
turned up (as it always seemed to me to do, at the wrong 
time), and cut her off before she had spoken ten words. 

“ Mr. Speaker ! ” she protested ; “ there is no ques- 
tion, previous to this, which needs the consideration of 
the house ! This is first in importance, and demands 
your immediate — ” 

“ Order ! order ! ” came from all parts of the house. 

“ I am in order — the right is always in order ! ” she ex- 
claimed, getting more and more excited. “ We women 
are not going to be contented with the mere show of our 
rights on this floor ; we demand the substance — ” 

And so she was going on, when there arose the most 
fearful tumult. The upshot of it was, that the speaker 
ordered the sergeant- at-arms to remove Mrs. Whiston ; 
one of the members, more considerate, walked across the 
floor to her, and tried to explain in what manner she was 
violating the rules ; and in another minute she sat down, 
so white, rigid and silent that it made me shake in my 
shoes to look at her. 


MRS. STRONGITHARM’S REPORT. 327 

“ I have made a great blunder,” she said to me, that 
evening ; “ and it may set us back a little ; but I shall re- 
cover my ground.” Which she did, I assure you. She 
cultivated the acquaintance of the leaders of both parties, 
studied their tactics, and quietly waited for a good oppor- 
tunity to bring in her bill. At first, we thought it would 
pass ; but one of the male members presently came out 
with a speech, which dashed our hopes to nothing. He 
simply took the ground that there must be absolute equal- 
ity in citizenship ; that every privilege was balanced by a 
duty, every trust accompanied with its responsibility. He 
had no objection to women possessing equal rights with 
men — but to give them all civil rights and exempt them 
from the most important obligation of service, would be, 
he said, to create a privileged class — a female aristocracy. 
It was contrary to the spirit of our institutions. The 
women had complained of taxation without representa- 
tion ; did they now claim the tatter without the former ? 

The people never look more than half-way into a sub- 
ject, and so this speech was immensely popular. I will 
not give Mrs. Whiston’s admirable reply ; for Mr. Spelter 
informs me that you will not accept an article, if it should 
make more than seventy or eighty printed pages. It is 
enough that our bill was “ killed,” as the men say (a bru- 
tal word) ; and the women of the State laid the blame of 
the failure upon us. You may imagine that we suffered 
under this injustice ; but worse was to come. 

As I said before, a great many things came up in the 
Legislature which I did not understand — and, to be can- 


328 


TALES OF HOME. 


did, did not care to understand. But I was obliged to 
vote, nevertheless, and in this extremity I depended 
pretty much on Mrs. Whiston’s counsel. We could not 
well go to the private nightly confabs of the members — 
indeed, they did not invite us ; and when it came to the 
issue of State bonds, bank charters, and such like, I felt 
as if I were blundering along in the dark. 

One day, I received, to my immense astonishment, a 
hundred and more letters, all from the northern part of 
our county. I opened them, one after the other, and — 
well, it is beyond my power to tell you what varieties of 
indignation and abuse fell upon me. It seems that I had 
voted against the bill to charter the Mendip Extension 
Railroad Co. I had been obliged to vote for or against 
so many things, that it was impossible to recollect them 
all. However, I procured the printed journal, and, sure 
enough ! there, among the nays, was “ Strongitharm.” It 
was not a week after that — and I was still suffering in 
mind and body — when the newspapers in the interest of 
the Rancocus and Great Western Consolidated accused 
me (not by name, but the same thing — you know how 
they do it) of being guilty of taking bribes. Mr. Filch, 
of the Shinnebaug Consolidated had explained to me so 
beautifully the superior advantages of his line, that the 
Directors of the other company took their revenge in this 
vile, abominable way. 

That was only the beginning of my trouble. What 
with these slanders and longing for the quiet of our dear 
old home at Burroak, I was almost sick ; yet the Legisla- 


MRS. STRONGITHARM’S REPORT. 


329 


lure sat on, and sat on, until I was nearly desperate. 
Then one morning came a despatch from my husband : 
“ Melissa is drafted — come home ! ” How I made the 
journey I can’t tell ; I was in an agony of apprehension, 
and when Mr. Strongitharm and Melissa both met me at 
the Burroak Station, well and smiling, I fell into a hyster- 
ical fit of laughing and crying, for the first time in my life. 

Billy Brandon, who was engaged to Melissa, came for- 
ward and took her place like a man ; he fought none the 
worse, let me tell you, because he represented a woman, 
and (I may as well say it now) he came home a Captain, 
without a left arm — but Melissa seems to have three arms 
for his sake. 

You have no idea what a confusion and lamentation 
there was all over the State. A good many women were 
drafted, and those who could neither get substitutes for 
love nor money, were marched to Gaston, where the re- 
cruiting Colonel was considerate enough -to give them a 
separate camp. In a week, however, the word came from 
Washington that the Army Regulations of the United 
States did not admit of their being received ; and they 
came home blessing Mr. Stanton. This was the end of 
drafting women in our State, 

Nevertheless, the excitement created by the draft did 
not subside at once. It was seized^upon by the Demo- 
cratic leaders, as part of a plan already concocted, which 
they then proceeded to^set in operation. It succeeded 
only too well, and I don’t know when we shall ever see 
the end of it. 


330 


TALES OF HOME. 


We had more friends among the Republicans at the 
start, because all the original Abolitionists in the State 
came into that party in i860. Our success had been so 
rapid and unforeseen that the Democrats continued their 
opposition even after female suffrage was an accomplished 
fact ; but the leaders were shrewd enough to see that an- 
other such election as the last would ruin their party in 
the State. So their trains were quietly laid, and the 
match was not applied until all Atlantic was ringing with 
the protestations of the unwilling conscripts and the la- 
ments of their families. Then came, like three claps of 
thunder in one, sympathy for the women, acquiescence in 
their rights, and invitations to them, everywhere, to take 
part in the Democratic caucuses and conventions. Most 
of the prominent women of the State were deluded for a 
time by this manifestation, and acted with the party for 
the sake of the sex. 

I had no idea, however, what the practical result of 
this movement would be, until, a few weeks before elec- 
tion, I was calling upon Mrs. Buckwalter, and happened 
to express my belief that we Republicans were going to 
carry the State again, by a large majority. 

“ I am very glad of it,” said she, with an expression 
of great relief, “ because then my vote will not be needed.” 

“ Why ! ” I exclaimed ; “ you won’t decline to vote, 
surely ? ” 

“ Worse than that,” she answered, “ I am afraid I shall 
have to vote with the other side.” 

Now -as I knew her to be a good Republican, I could 


MRS. STRONGITHARM’S REPORT. 33 1 

scarcely believe my ears. She blushed, I must admit, 
when she saw my astonished face. 

“ I’m so used to Bridget, you know,” she continued, 
“ and good girls are so very hard to find, nowadays. She 
has as good as said that she won’t stay a day later than 
election, if I don’t vote for her candidate ; and what am I 
to do ? ” 

“ Do without ! ” I said shortly, getting up in my indig- 
nation. 

“Yes, that’s very well for you, with your wonderful 
physique” said Mrs. Buckwalter, quietly, “ but think of me 
with my neuralgia, and the pain in my back ! It would 
be a dreadful blow, if I should lose Bridget.” 

Well — what with torch-light processions, and meetings 
on both sides, Burroak was in such a state of excitement 
when election caipe, that most of the ladies of my acquaint- 
ance were almost ,afraid to go to the polls. I tried to get 
them out during the first hours after sunrise, when I went 
myself, but in vain. Even that early, I heard things that 
made me shudder. Those who came later, went home re- 
solved to give up their rights rather than undergo a second 
experience of rowdyism. But it was a jubilee for the servant 
girls. Mrs. Buckwalter didn’t gain much by her apostasy, 
for Bridget came home singing “The Wearing of the 
Green,” and let fall a whole tray full of the best china be- 
fore she could be got to bed. 

Burroak, which, the year before, had a Republican 
majority of three hundred, now went for the Democrats 
by more than five hundred. The same party carried the 


332 


TALES OF HOME. 


State, electing their Governor by near twenty thousand. 
The Republicans would now have gladly repealed the 
bill giving us equal rights, but they were in a minority, 
and the Democrats refused to co-operate. Mrs. Whiston, 
who still remained loyal to our side, collected information 
from all parts of the State, from which it appeared that 
four-fifths of all the female citizens had voted the Demo- 
cratic ticket. In New Lisbon, our great manufacturing 
city, with its population of nearly one hundred thousand, 
the party gained three thousand votes, while the acces- 
sions to the Republican ranks were only about four hun- 
dred. 

Mrs. Whiston barely escaped being defeated ; her ma- 
jority was reduced from seven hundred to forty-three. 
Eleven Democratic Assemblywomen and four Senator- 
esses were chosen, however, so that she had the consola- 
tion of knowing that her sex had gained, although her 
party had lost. She was still in good spirits : “ It will all 
right itself in time,” she said. 

You will readily guess, after what I have related, that 
I was not only not re-elected to the Legislature, but that 
I was not even a candidate. I could have born the out- 
rageous attacks of the opposite party ; but the treatment 
I had received from my own “ constituents ” (I shall al- 
ways hate the word) gave me a new revelation of the ac- 
tual character of political life. I have not mentioned half 
the worries and annoyances to which I was subjected — 
the endless, endless letters and applications for office, or 
for my influence in some way — the abuse and threats when 


MRS. STRONGITHARM’S REPORT. 


333 


I could not possibly do what was desired — the exhibitions 
of selfishness and disregard of all great and noble princi- 
ples — and finally, the shameless advances which were 
made by what men call “ the lobby,” to secure my vote 
for this, that, and the other thing. Why, it fairly made my 
hair stand on end to hear the stories which the pleasant 
men, whom I thought so grandly interested in schemes 
for “the material development of the country,” told 
about each other. Mrs. Filch’s shawl began to burn my 
shoulders before I had worn it a half a dozen times. (I 
have since given it to Melissa, as a wedding-present). 

Before the next session was half over, I was doubly 
glad of being safe at home. Mrs. Whiston supposed that 
the increased female representation would give her more 
support, and indeed it seemed so, at first. But after her 
speech on the Bounty bill, only two of the fifteen Demo- 
cratic women would even speak to her, and all hope of 
concord of action in the interests of women was at an 
end. We read the debates, and my blood fairly boiled 
when I found what taunts and sneers, and epithets she 
was forced to endure. I wondered how she could sit still 
under them. 

To make her position worse, the adjoining seat was 
occupied by an Irishwoman, who had been elected by the 
votes of the laborers on the new Albemarle Extension, in 
the neighborhood of which she kept a grocery store. 
Nelly Kirkpatrick was a great, red-haired giant of a wo- 
man, very illiterate, but with some native wit, and good- 
hearted enough, I am told, when she was in her right 


334 


TALES OF HOME. 


mind. She always followed the lead of Mr. Gorham 
(whose name, you see, came before hers in the call), and 
a look from him was generally sufficient to quiet her when 
she was inclined to be noisy. 

When the resolutions declaring the war a failure were 
introduced, the party excitement ran higher than ever. 
The “ lunch-room’’ (as they called it — I never went there 
but once, the title having deceived me) in the basement- 
story of the State House was crowded during the discus- 
sion, and every time Nelly Kirkpatrick came up, her face 
was a shade deeper red. Mr. Gorham’s nods and winks 
were of no avail — speak she would, and speak she did, 
not so very incoherently, after all, but very abusively. To 
be sure, you would never have guessed it, if you had read 
the quiet and dignified report in the papers on her side, 
the next day. 

Then Mrs. Whiston’s patience broke down. “Mr. 
Speaker,” she exclaimed, starting to her feet, “ I protest 
against this House being compelled to listen to such a 
tirade as has just been delivered. Are we to be disgraced 
before the world — ” 

“ Oh, hoo ! Disgraced, is it ? ” yelled Nelly Kirkpat- 
rick, violently interrupting her, “ and me as dacent a wom- 
an as ever she was, or ever will be ! Disgraced, hey ? 
Oh, I’ll larn her what it is to blaggiffd her betters ! ” 

And before anybody could imagine what was coming, 
she pounced upon Mrs. Whiston, with one jerk ripped off 
her skirt (it was silk, not serge, this time), seized her by 
the hair, and gave her head such a twist backwards, that 


MRS. STRONGITHARM’S REPORT. 


335 


the chignon not only came off in her hands, but as her 
victim opened her mouth too widely in the struggle, the 
springs of her false teeth were sprung the wrong way, and 
the entire set flew out and rattled upon the floor. 

Of course there were cries of “ Order ! Order ! ” and 
the nearest members — Mr. Gorham among the first — 
rushed in ; but the mischief was done. Mrs. Whiston had 
always urged upon our minds the necessity of not only be- 
ing dressed according to the popular fashion, but also as 
elegantly and becomingly as possible. “ If we adopt the 
Bloomers,” she said, “ we shall never get our rights, while 
the world stands. Where it is necessary to influence men, 
we must be wholly and truly women , not semi-sexed non- 
descripts ; we must employ every charm Nature gives us 
and Fashion adds, not hide them under a forked ex- 
tinguisher ! ” I give her very words to show you her way 
of looking at things. Well, now imagine this elegant 
woman, looking not a day over forty, though she was — 
but no, I have no right to tell it, — imagine her, I say, with 
only her scanty natural hair hanging over her ears, her 
mouth dreadfully fallen in, her skirt torn off, all in open 
day, before the eyes of a hundred and fifty members (and 
I am told they laughed immensely, in spite of the 
scandal that it was), and, if you are human beings, you 
will feel that she must have been wounded to the very 
heart. 

There was a motion made to expel Nelly Kirkpatrick, 
and perhaps it might have succeeded— but the railroad 
hands, all over the State, made a heroine of her, and her 


33<5 


TALES OF HOME. 


party was afraid of losing five or six thousand votes ; 
so only a mild censure was pronounced. But there 
was no end to the caricatures, and songs, and all 
sorts of ribaldry, about the occurrence ; and even our 
party said that, although Mrs. Whiston was really and 
truly a martyr, yet the circumstance was an immense 
damage to them. When she heard that , I believe it killed 
her. She resigned her seat, went home, never appeared 
again in public, and died within a year. “ My dear 
friend,” she wrote to me, not a month before her death, 
“ I have been trying all my life to get a thorough knowl- 
edge of the masculine nature, but my woman’s plummet 
will not reach to the bottom of that chaotic pit of selfish- 
ness and principle, expedience and firmness for the right, 
brutality and tenderness, gullibility and devilish shrewd- 
ness, which I have tried to sound. Only one thing is 
clear — we women cannot do without what we have 
sometimes, alas ! sneered at as the chivalry of the sex. The 
question of our rights is as clear to me as ever ; but we 
must find a plan to get them without being forced to share, 
or even to see , all that men do in their political lives. We 
have only beheld some Principle riding aloft, not the 
mud through which her chariot wheels are dragged. The 
ways must be swept before we can walk in them — but how 
and by whom shall this be done ? ” 

For my part, /can’t say, and I wish somebody would 
tell me. 

Well — after seeing our State, which we used to be 
proud of, delivered over for two years to the control of a 


MRS. STRONGITHARM’S REPORT. 


337 


party whose policy was so repugnant to all our feelings of 
loyalty, we endeavored to procure, at least a qualification 
of intelligence for voters. Of course, we didn’t get it : the 
exclusion from suffrage of all who were unable to read and 
write might have turned the scales again, and given us 
the State. After our boys came back from the war, we 
might have succeeded — but their votes were over-balanced 
by those of the servant-girls, every one of whom turned 
out, making a whole holiday of the election. 

I thought, last fall, that my Maria, who is German, 
would have voted with us. I stayed at home and did the 
work myself, on purpose that she might hear the oration 
of Carl Schurz ; but old Hammer, who keeps the lager- 
beer saloon in the upper end of Burroak, gave a supper 
and a dance to all the German girls and their beaux, after 
the meeting, and so managed to secure nine out of ten of 
their votes for Seymour. Maria proposed going away a 
week before election, up into Decatur County, where, she 
said, some relations, just arrived from Bavaria, had settled. 
I was obliged to let her go, or lose her altogether, but I 
was comforted by the thought that if her vote were lost 
for Grant, at least it could not be given to Seymour. Aftei 
the election was over, and Decatur County, which we had 
always managed to carry hitherto, went against us, the 
whole matter was explained. About five hundred girls, 
we were informed, had been colonized in private families, 
as extra help, for a fortnight, and of course Maria was 
one of them. (I have looked at the addresses of her let- 
ters, ever since, and not one has she sent to Decatur). A 
15 


338 


TALES OF HOME. 


committee has been appointed, and a report made on the 
election frauds in our State, and we shall see, I suppose, 
whether any help comes of it. 

Now, you mustn’t think, from all this, that I am an 
apostate from the principle of Women’s Rights. No, in- 
deed ! All the trouble we have had, as I think will be 
evident to the millions who read my words, comes from 
the men . They have not only made politics their monop- 
oly, but they have fashioned it into a tremendous, elaborate 
system, in which there is precious little of either principle 
or honesty. We can and we must “ run the machine ” (to 
use another of their vulgar expressions) with them, until 
we get a chance to knock off the useless wheels and thing- 
umbobs, and scour the whole concern, inside and out. 
Perhaps the men themselves would like to do this, if they 
only knew how : men have so little talent for cleaning-up. 
But when it comes to making a litter, they’re at home, let 
me tell you ! 

Meanwhile, in our State, things are about as bad as 
they can be. The women are drawn for juries, the same 
as ever, but (except in Whittletown, where they have a sep- 
arate room,) no respectable woman goes, and the fines 
come heavy on some of us. The demoralization among 
our help is so bad, that we are going to try Co-operative 
Housekeeping. If that don’t succeed, I shall get brother 
Samuel, who lives in California, to send me two China- 
men, one for cook and chamber-boy, and one as nurse for 
Melissa. I console myself with thinking that the end of 
it all must be good, since the principle is right : but, dear 


MRS. STRONGITHARM’S REPORT. 339 

me ! I had no idea that I should be called upon to go 
through such tribulation. 

Now the reason I write — and I suppose I must hurry 
to the end, or you will be out of all patience — is to beg, 
and insist, and implore my sisters in other States to lose 
no more time, but at once to coax, or melt, or threaten 
the men into accepting their claims. We are now so iso- 
lated in our rights that we are obliged to bear more than 
our proper share of the burden. When the States around 
us shall be so far advanced, there will be a chance for new 
stateswomen to spring up, and fill Mrs. Whiston’s place, 
and we shall then, I firmly believe, devise a plan to cleanse 
the great Augean stable of politics by turning into it the 
river of female honesty and intelligence and morality. 
But they must do this, somehow or other, without letting 
the river be tainted by the heaps of pestilent offal it must 
sweep away. As Lord Bacon says (in that play falsely 
attributed to Shakespeare)— “Ay, there’s the rub ! ” 

If you were to ask me, now , what effect the right of 
suffrage, office, and all the duties of men has had upon 
the morals of the women of our State, I should be puzzled 
what to say. It is something like this — if you put a chem- 
ical purifying agent into a bucket of muddy water, the 
water gets clearer, to be sure, but the chemical substance 
takes up some of the impurity. Perhaps that’s rather too 
strong a comparison ; but if you say that men are worse 
than women, as most people do, then of course we im- 
prove them by closer political intercourse, and lose a little 
ourselves, in the process. I leave you to decide the rela- 


340 


TALES OF HOME. 


tive loss and gain. To tell you the truth, this is a feature 
of the question which I would rather not discuss ; and I 
see, by the reports of the recent Conventions, that all the 
champions of our sex feel the same way. 

Well, since I must come to an end somewhere, let it be 
here. To quote Lord Bacon again, take my “ round, un- 
varnished tale,” and perhaps the world will yet acknowledge 
that some good has been done by 

Yours truly, 

Jane Strongitharm. 


THE END. 


Bayard Taylor’s Novels 


I. HANNAH THURSTON. A Story of American Life. 

One vol. i2mo, $2. Household edition $1 50 

“ If Bayard Taylor has not placed himself, as we are half inclined to suspect, in 
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original story, admirably told, crowded with life-like characters, full of delicate 
and subtle sympathies, with ideas the most opposite to his own, and lighted up 
throughout with that playful humor which suggests always wisdom rather than 
mere fun.” — London Spectator. 

II. JOHN GODFREY’S FORTUNES. Related by Him- 

self. 121110, $2. Household edition $1 50 

“ ‘John Godfrey’s Fortunes,’ without being melodramatic or morbid, is one of 
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social life, though not flattering, is eminently truthful ; its delineation of character 
is delicate and natural ; its English, though sometimes careless, is singularly grate- 
ful and pleasant.” — Cleveland Leader. 

III. THE STORY OF KENNETT. One vol. 121110, $2. 

Household edition $1 50 

“Mr. Bayard Taylor’s book is delightful and refreshing reading, and a 
great rest after the crowded artistic effects and the conventional interests of even 
the better kind of English novels.” — London Spectator. 

“As a picture of rural life, we think this novel of Mr. Taylor’s excels any of his 
previous productions.” — N. V. Evening Post. 

“A tale of absorbing interest.” — Syracuse Standard. 

IV. JOSEPH AND HIS FRIEND. A Story of Penn- 

sylvania. i2ino, cloth, $2. Household edition $1 50 

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“ By far the best novel of the season.” — Cleveland Leader. 

V. BEAUTY AND THE BEAST and TALES OF 

HOME. i2mo, cloth, $1.75. Household edition $150 

4 

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ELDORADO ; or, Adventures in the Path of Empire 

(Mexico and California). i2mo, $2. Household edition $1 50 

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tive of Taylor will have interest as assisting them to appreciate the wondrous 
changes that have been effected in this region since the days of turmoil, excite- 
ment, and daring speculation of which the tourist speaks.” Sacramento Lnion. 

CENTRAL AFRICA. Life and Landscape from Cairo to the 

White Nile. Two plates and cuts. i2mo, $2. Household edition $150 

“ We have read many of Bayard Taylor’s readable books — and he never wrote 
one that was not extremely interesting — but we have never been so well pleased 
with any of his writings as we are with the volume now before us, A Journey to 
Central Africa.’ ” — Binghamton Republican. 

GREECE AND RUSSIA. With an Excursion to Crete. 

Two plates, i2ino, $2. Household edition $1 5 ° 

“In point of flowing narrative and graphic description, this volume is fully 
equal to the previous works which have given Mr. Bayard 1 aylor such an emi- 
nent place among modern travellers.'’ — Harper' s Monthly. 


HOME AND ABROAD. A Sketch-book of Life, Scenery, 

and Men. Two plates. 121110, $2. Household edition $1 50 

(Second Series.) With two plates. i2mo, $2. Household edition, $1 50 
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It is in a large measure autobiographical. Whatever has most impressed him in 
any part of the earth] is noted in some one of these letters.” — Taunton Gazette. 

“ A volume from Bayard Taylor is always a pleasure. He not only knows how 
to travel and how to enjoy it, but he excels in giving entertainment by his narra- 
tion to others.” — Bangor Whig. 

INDIA, CHINA, AND JAPAN. Two plates. 121110, $2. 

Household edition $1 50 

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we most desire that he should see, and he tells us that which we most desire to 
know.” — Ne 7 t> Bedford Mercury . 

LAND OF THE SARACEN ; or, Pictures of Palestine, 

Asia Minor, Sicily, and Spain. With two plates. i2mo, $2. House- 
hold edition $1 50 

NORTHERN TRAVEL. Summer and Winter Pictures 

of Sweden, Denmark, and Lapland. With two plates. i2mo, $2. 

Household edition $1 50 

“ There is no romance to us quite equal to one of Bayard Taylor’s books of 

travel.” — Hartford Republican. 

VIEWS AFOOT ; or, Europe seen with Knapsack and 

Staff. i2mo, $2. Household edition $1 50 

“ We need say nothing in praise of Bayard Taylor’s writings. He travels in 

every direction, and sees and hears pretty much all that is worth seeing and hear- 
ing. His descriptions are accurate, and always reliable and interesting.” — 
Syracuse Journal. 

BY-WAYS OF EUROPE. 121110, $2. Household edi- 

tion $1 50 

Contents : 

A Familiar Letter to the Reader. A Cruise on Lake Lagoda. Between 
Europe and Asia. Winter-Life in St. Petersburgh. The Little Land of Appen- 
zell. From Perpignan to Montserrat. Balearic Days. Catalonian Bridle-Roads. 
The Republic of the Pyrenees. The Grand Chartreuse. The Kyffhauser and 
its Legends, A Week at Capri. A Trip to Ischia. The Land of Paoli. The 
Island of Maddalena. In the Teutoberger Forest. The Suabian Alp. 


BAYARD TAYLOR'S COMPLETE WORKS. 


THE COMPLETE WORKS OF BAYARD TAYLOR. 

In fifteen volumes. People’s edition, cloth, $30. Household edi- 


tion $22 50 

THE TRAVELS, separate, ten volumes, $22.50. House- 

hold edition $15 00 


*** Sent post-paid , on receipt of price , by 

G. P. PUTNAM & SONS, Publishers, 

Fourth Are. and 2yi Street , New York. 

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